The Weirdest Story Ever Told
by RCGumby
Summary: The ultimate fanfiction crossover, combining more TV shows and movies than your eyeballs can stand without falling out of your head! Rate and review.
1. Forward

**Foreword by the Author, or**  
**Don't Say We Didn't Warn You**

Before beginning this new story, I feel I should explain a few things about it. First, I wrote the original version of this story during my college days, just for my own personal laughs. For publishing online, it will first go through several extensive rewrites and revisions so that it will truly be as the tagline says, the ultimate fanfiction crossover. At least, that's how I hope it turns out. And these revisions may take a considerable amount of time, so I can't guarantee that chapters will be posted on a regular basis.  
Normally, I wait until one of my stories is complete before I start publishing installments of it. Frankly, it bugs me whenever someone else starts publishing a story I start reading online or in comics, and abandons it halfway through for whatever reason, and I don't want to subject other people to that. In this one instance, however, I'm breaking my personal rule about that because this story is by far the longest one I've ever tried. It could be years before the whole thing is finished, and I don't want to wait that long before posting it.  
Finally, and most importantly, this is a work of fanfiction - a very long work of fanfiction using a _boat load_ of characters created by an equally large boat load of other people. Although most of the main cast of characters in this work are in fact my own, I want it on record as always that I make absolutely no claims to any of the borrowed characters, situations, or so-called intellectual properties that are going to appear in this work. This work is no more than and no less than a free showcase of characters from TV shows, movies, and cartoons that I grew up with as a child or later learned to love as an adult. And I want to give thanks beforehand to all those who are responsible for these characters: the writers who created them, the actors and actresses who portrayed them, and the producers and directors who brought them to the screen, big or small. Specific credits will be given as characters are introduced in the story.

Sit back. Relax. Make sure your tablet is fully charged. You're about to read:

**The Weirdest Story Ever Told**

*This has been a transcribed announcement.*


	2. Introducing the Players

**Chapter 1**  
**Introducing the Players, or**  
**Where the Weird Things Are**

Our story opens on a winter's night in Poker Bluffs, New Jersey, a small town where the most exciting thing that ever happened was when the local coffee shop used a different jelly in their doughnuts. And since at the beginning of this story it was one o'clock in the morning, they weren't making any doughnuts at all, jelly or otherwise. The darkness was broken only by the stars and the few street lights the town had, all shining down on a fresh two-inch layer of snow that had fallen that afternoon. Poker Bluff's three grocery stores were devoid of activity, as was the court house, the inn, and the town hall, and most of the town's inhabitants were sound asleep. The only people awake were five night-owls watching the late movie, three insomniacs drowning themselves in warm milk and numbered sheep, and one unhappily married man who decided he had to buy a new couch as soon as possible.

Oh, and one lone figure lurking around inside the Gumby house on Third Street. The figure sneaked into the kitchen under cover of darkness with the stealth of a cat. With perfect precision and silence, it crept up to the refrigerator, opened it up, and pulled out a container of mustard, three different packages of lunch meat, two different packages of sliced cheese, two hard-boiled eggs, a tomato, a head of lettuce, some leftover pickle relish, and about half a dozen other assorted foodstuffs. The person closed the refrigerator and set his/her/its future midnight snack on the counter and built a sandwich that would make Dagwood Bumstead jealous and an antacid manufacturer filthy rich.

Totally engrossed in the work, the midnight snacker failed to notice that another figure was sneaking up from behind with a baseball bat poised to knock the first figure senseless. The second figure brought the weapon back to deliver an incapacitating blow, and in the process, knocked a plant off its hook and flung it into a sink full of dirty dishes. The shattering noise (and I mean that literally) alerted the first figure, who grabbed the second figure, tackled him/her/it to the floor, picked it up and flipped it head over heels and slammed it to the floor again, and then yanked it up again and gave it a headlock.

Struggling proved futile for the captured prowler, so instead it growled to the first figure, "You got seven nanoseconds to get off me, Ima!"

"Rupert!?" said his captor. "I thought you were a burglar or something! What are you doing out here with that bat?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd try out for the midnight baseball team What do you _think_ I'm doing out here!? I thought _you_ were a burglar! What're you doing here at this time of the night!?"

"I was working late, finishing up our annual budget figures, and I got hungry," Ima replied.

"For that you have to work late? The only revenue we have is from online sales and the deposits on all our soda bottles. We could work out our annual budget on an abacus!"

Ima finished work on her giant sandwich, responding, "Well, we haven t got an abacus, so I have to do them like other people do." She took a bite, and between chewing she added, "And according to the numbers, we all better drink more soda."

"Don't tell me sales figures are _still_ in the basement!"

"Rupert, sales figures have tunneled _under_ the basement and are trying to find a route to the center of the Earth."

"Now wait a minute!" Rupert exclaimed. "You told me just the other day that sales of 'The Maltese Slipper' were _double_ that of our previous movie!"

"Yes, they were," Ima conceded. "I talked your mother into buying a copy."

Rupert fell into a silent sulk, wondering for the eight thousandth time if his company was cursed. He started his web-based entertainment company, R. C. Gumby Productions, in his own two-bedroom house three days before the dot-com bubble burst, using the most advanced equipment his available funds could buy from the Salvation Army. He, Rupert C. Gumby, an ex-librarian with no formal theatrical training and even less business sense, was CEO, manager, director, and all-around totalitarian dictator of a team of semi-dedicated people, most of whom only signed on to humor the little weirdo. His team produced comedy and satirical scripts and video productions for the internet, plus a weekly talk show webcast that in principle was a showcase for all things and all peoples out-of-the ordinary in the world. In practice, they usually just ended up arguing with each other on webcam for an entire show.

The woman who made the sandwich and smeared her boss all over the floor was Ima Nutt, Rupert's production manager and assistant director. She had been with the company since its beginning, following an abrupt departure from her previous position on a TV station technical crew. One of her male co-workers made a pass at her, and instead of following through the standard procedures of reporting sexual harassment, she elected to empty an entire tube of crazy glue into the co-worker's hair, bend him backwards until his head was glued to his butt, tie his legs to a heavy crane cable, and try to use him to demolish a condemned skyscraper in downtown Trenton.

As Ima took some more bites from her one-handed four-course meal, a third figure entered the kitchen, half-asleep and half-annoyed. "I would think that even humans would take a break from arguing to sleep," said Myran.

His comment about the species of his co-workers wasn't as out of left field as it sounded. Myran might have looked as human as Rupert and Ima, but in reality he was a cultural observation agent from the Star Confederation, an interstellar civilization centuries ahead of Earth in technological development, and millennia ahead of R. C. Gumby Productions in technological development. His human appearance was merely a disguise created by an advanced matter reshaping process used by all Confederation observers in order to blend into pre-contact societies. His actual physical form was more like a seven-foot-long slug with six tentacles. He once showed them an image of his original body, and after two other employees expressed sudden cravings for sushi, it was agreed not to speak of it again.

"Myran, what are you doing up?" asked Rupert.

Myran held up the object in his hand. It appeared to be a typical flip-open cell phone, but just like his own body, that was merely a disguise for something unearthly. "I was busy working on my communicorder. I've figured out away to increase its range 5%, and all it requires is a slight adjustment on the microtranstator configuration to allow it to increase its power output, thus lengthening the range of its scanner and communicator modes . . ."

What followed was either an explanation of the procedure or a scientific lecture which no human could begin to understand, so I won't even bother to quote it. Suffice to say this "communicorder" of his was a scanning and recording device and a long-range communicator all in one. Rupert and Ima just stood there, staring blankly at Myran for three minutes, wondering when he was going to say something intelligible.

"Uh, Myran," Ima broke in, "that's very . . . interesting, but it's getting late. I ought to be heading home."

Rupert turned to her. "Especially since you gotta be here early tomorrow. After we record the webcast, we've got the interviews to do."

"Oh right," said Ima, "the sound engineer's position. Finally, a full-time replacement!"

"Fingers crossed," Rupert replied. "And then! I've got a new idea for a movie: We're going to parody 'A Christmas Carol'!"

"Which one?" asked Myran.

Rupert and Ima were both taken aback. "Which one what?" asked Rupert.

"Which Christmas carol do you want to parody?"

Ima was first to get it. "Not a _song_, Myran! The Charles Dickens novel _titled_ 'A Christmas Carol'!"

"You've been here how many years? Following in the footsteps of how many previous observers? And you've never heard of 'A Christmas Carol'!?" demanded Rupert.

"'A Christmas Carol,'" repeated a completely different voice with no emotion whatsoever. Rupert, Ima, and Myran turned to the kitchen door as a tiny figure stepped through on two stubby legs. The figure looked for all the universe like a dark brown teddy bear with two tiny button eyes, a button nose, and no mouth. Yet with no visible mouth, the same flat voice continued from it, reciting, "Composed by author Charles Dickens of Portsmouth, England, Earth. First published by Chapman and Hall on the 19th of December, 1843, Earth-Gregorian calendar. The original novella was subtitled, 'Being a Ghost Story of Christmas', in that one of its major plot elements involved the manifestations of the so-called spirits of deceased humans in the presence of another human named Ebenezer Scrooge -"

"Myran, you oughta hire Chip out to Wikipedia," Rupert remarked. "He could revolutionize the Information Age."

"You oughta hire him out to the Mayo Clinic," Ima remarked. "He could cure insomnia for all time."

Myran walked over and picked up the ersatz teddy bear, which like Myran was merely a disguise. In reality, Chip was a sophisticated intelligent robot that Myran once built for a school science project. Many years later, when Myran was assigned to observe Earth's civilization, he brought Chip along as a mobile data recording and storage archive. Myran also downloaded into Chip all information on Earth available from previous planetary scans and cultural observers. But although Chip had proven many times to be a valuable partner in his mission, Myran now had mixed feelings about bringing him to Earth. Without the capacity for emotion, Chip could only process information on a purely logical basis. More than once, Chip's artificial brain nearly crashed while trying to process the goings-on at R. C. Gumby Productions and its highly illogical staff.

"Chip is just trying to help," Myran retorted as he picked the ersatz teddy bear off the floor. To Chip, he added, "I'd like to know why you're . . awake, so to speak. Shouldn't you be recharging?"

"My vibrational sensors detected movement in the kitchen of an unusually active level for this segment of Earth's diurnal cycle."

"That was me and Rupert," Ima deadpanned between sandwich bites, "fighting over the last slice of olive loaf."

Rupert gave her a puzzled look. "I don't have any olive loaf."

"Not anymore. I used it up in my sandwich."

"I _never_ had any olive loaf!"

Ima opened her half-eaten sandwich. "Then what's this?" she asked, indicating the lunch meat sandwiched between the Swiss cheese and lettuce, some of which she was still chewing.

Rupert took a close look at the pinkish slab of lunch meat dotted with bright green specks. "That's bologna."

Ima slowly stopped chewing. Her eyes slowly grew wide. Her face slowly turned as green as the specks on the bologna.

"I'm not hungry anymore," she said, somehow keeping her voice flat. "I think I'll go home and get some sleep." After a beat and a few steps toward the door, she added, "Or some Pepto." Another beat. "Or a stomach pump."

The next morning, just after six o'clock, R. C. Gumby Productions' bleary-eyed staff assembled at Rupert's house, including Ima, who seemed none the worse for wear after last night. She credited a very strong constitution, built up over many years by her mother's so-called cooking.

Rupert had spared no soda can deposits to renovate his house into a fully-functioning entertainment company, complete with video studio (in the attic), control room (spare bedroom), soundproof recording studio (spare bathroom), prop department (linen closet), the latest and most powerful computing technology available (Commodore 64), and a sophisticated climate-control system (ceiling fan). And all of it was about to be put to use good or bad, you decide to produce the latest episode of "It's a Weird World," the company's weekly webcast talk show and verbal slug fest.

In addition to director Rupert, assistant director and production manager Ima, and technical support specialists Myran and Chip, the production crew included a crack team of professionals, all top experts in their chosen fields, with the skills and creativity to make the highest-quality entertainment . . . . oh, who am I kidding? Let's just introduce the yo-yos:

Technical director Geraldine Atreck, known as Jerry to her co-workers and all her friends at Gold's Gym, was a 92-year-old widow of a former electronics store owner, and a five-time X-Games champion. Just one month earlier, she broke her own record time for the Mid-Atlantic off-road Harley Davidson motorcross. She had more energy than seventy people one-fourth her age, eagerly embracing such hobbies as kayaking, full-contact football, and tag-team wrestling, much to her great-grandkids' amazement and her co-workers' exhaustion.

Chief of publicity Gary Ingram Patrick "G. I. P." Funny was pursuing a radio and television degree at college when he unexpectedly dropped out at age 20. He forgot to mail his tuition payment. He was still unemployed when he joined R. C. Gumby Productions, and proved to be a loyal and enthusiastic staff member, always willing to help out when his co-workers needed it, and often when they didn't need it. Tall with light-brown hair, he had a wife named Jeanie (with the same color hair) and two young daughters. Gary and his wife were members of the local Polar Bear Club, a group with a tradition of swimming in freezing cold water every winter. Gary always told his co-workers it wasn't as crazy as it sounded, as long as you drink three quarts of hot coffee or cocoa just before going in.

Video and film editor Rhoda Dendron was originally from Portland, Maine, where she grew up an active community member. Her activities ranged from races between soapbox cars shaped like soda bottles, to strip-backgammon tournaments, to something involving a lampshade, two jars of centipedes, and a gallon of sheep's milk. Nobody ever got up the nerve to ask what that was about, fearing a detailed explanation would be ten times more demented. After struggling for acceptance in several areas of employment, including a brief stint working for her brother Phil in his flower shop, she eventually found a position in the psychiatric ward of Princeton Hospital. That position ended when the entire staff went insane, and that's when she was recruited by R. C. Gumby Productions, where her bizarre ideas and wild eccentricities fit in perfectly.

Perched on Rhoda's shoulder was her pet bird, Feathers. A rare species of South American parrot raised in Newark, Feathers had intellectual and vocal abilities on par with those of any normal human, and spared neither when commenting on how ridiculous she thought humans were. When Rhoda joined the company, Feathers volunteered her services as Rhoda's on-staff therapist, fearing R. C. Gumby Productions would suffer the same fate as Princeton Hospital without her rationalizing presence.

Ever since childhood, boom operator and key grip Abigail "Ab" Normal received scores of angry letters and emails for being personally responsible for perpetuating the old stereotype of the ditzy blonde. Her attention span was measured in milliseconds, and her mind wandered more haphazardly in more directions than a speck of dust caught in a tornado. In high school, she was voted most likely to forget her own name. Having recently moved to New Jersey from Boston, she failed to secure a number of potential jobs (including dishwasher, waitress, car wash attendant, etc.) before she gained her current position at R. C. Gumby Productions. Another very loyal and enthusiastic staff member, she lived to make everyone happy, but usually ended up driving them nuts.

Cameraman Homer Zelchel had his name legally changed at age 18, fearing he would never gain a serious job anywhere with a pun-sounding name like Robin Banks. If he'd only known... He was one of the original members of R. C. Gumby Productions, and always felt that his seniority entitled him to more privileges and higher rank. Fortunately, time and perspective gradually mellowed the bitterness and sarcasm that had threatened to consume him. That, and his co-workers threatened to turn him wrong-side-out if he didn't adjust his attitude.

Unably assisting the production crew was an equally incompetent support staff working hardly behind the scenes to ensure R. C. Gumby's rough operations, including Rupert's personal go-fer, copy boy, and all-around chief stooge, Fred Flintstone the 79,824th. Yes, you heard right, the latest descendant of the famous and still dopey Stone Age family. A recent high school graduate, Fred didn't want to go into the gravel mining business like his father, or his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, or his great-great-grandfather, or his great-great-great-grandfather, or . . . you get the idea. He decided to go into entertainment, but instead he ended up at R. C. Gumby Productions. Overly grateful for the opportunity, portly, dark-haired Fred (description sound familiar?) was fiercely loyal to the company and to Rupert, sort of like a whining little puppy would stick close to its crabby master.

Joe Fool cost his parents a great deal of money when he wasn't born until New Year's Day, thus preventing them from declaring a dependent on the previous year's income tax. They never forgave him for it. Well, also because until the age of 16, he suffered from a mysterious gland condition which caused his body to emit the most foul odors imaginable. When it disappeared just as mysteriously and he smelled fresh air for the first time, he decided he didn't like it, so he enrolled in college to pursue a degree in sanitation. After graduating with straight D's, he was hired as R. C. Gumby Productions' chief janitor. Two days later, Joe was promoted to technical director, but then demoted back to janitor after he ate Rupert's last cheese danish and threw it up all over a stack of DVD's of their first movie production. Somewhat on the morose side, Fool spent most of his time complaining about the state of everything, especially his non-existent social life.

Not really an employee so much as a mascot was Digger, Rupert's pet beagle. His 18-year-old pet beagle. In dog years, Digger was so old that he was paper trained with papyrus. Although a loyal dog, having been quite helpful to the company on a number of occasions, sleeping was usually the only thing he ever did by this time. None of Rupert's employees understood why he would take a dog who should have been put in assisted living a long time ago into the field for movie roles or assignments for their talk show. Digger tended to just ignore everything that went on around him, unless there was food or sleep involved.

Everything and everyone was in place to start production on the talk show. Rupert was in front of the camera. Jerry, Rhoda, and Gary were in the control room. Ima was just off camera ready to assist. Ab was just off camera ready to drive everyone bananas. Homer was just off camera adjusting the camera. Myran was just off camera ready to fix anything that broke during recording. Fred was just off camera doing nothing at all. And Joe was in full view of the camera, sweeping up the floor right behind Rupert. Jerry gave the signal, and Rupert started.

"Hello, viewers. Welcome to a new episode of 'It's a Weird World.' And this time we have a special treat in store-" He paused, hearing something behind him. He turned around and saw Joe absent-mindedly sweeping in front of the camera. "Joe! Why are you sweeping the studio now!?"

"For ten dollars an hour. And I want a raise," Joe answered.

"Go on, beat it! Get outta the picture!" Rupert shouted, pushing Joe off camera. His temper still inflamed, he griped, "Can't we have just one show start off without something stupid happening!?"

"Oh, calm down, Rupert!" Myran retorted. "This isn't a bad start by anyone's standard!"

Suddenly there was a loud, boiling sizzle followed by an eruption, followed by hot coffee spraying all over the studio and all the lights going out.

"Oh phooey!" cried Ab. "Why do I always put the coffee in the toaster instead of the coffee maker?"

"Don't say it, Rupert," muttered Myran. "Just don't say it."

"Only if you bring me a flashlight."

After Jerry and Myran repaired the circuit breakers, the rest of the broadcast went on much as it did every time, with two arguments breaking out, half the equipment shorting out, and the guest speaker leaving early to change his name and move out of state.

An hour later, Rupert was seated at his desk, with Homer and Fred beside him. The first interview for sound engineer wasn't due until later, so Rupert spent the time until then working out programming ideas for upcoming episodes. Homer and Fred watched closely as Rupert jotted down notes on his paper, and Homer offered helpful suggestions.

"Rupert, that is the dumbest idea you've ever had."

Rupert, ever adamant with his programing decisions, responded firmly to Homer, "What do you mean, dumb!? I've had this planned for three weeks!"

"A film of the feeding habits of Peruvian llamas?"

"What's wrong with that? Lots of people like nature shows! Besides, its either that or an old Popeye cartoon."

Fred tried to offer assistance. "C'mon, Homer! Rupert has a pretty good point there. We should be offering more variety in our webcasts, and I'd say nature videos are more varieting than what we usually do."

"'Varieting'?" Homer asked. "Where'd you get that word?"

"From your resume," Fred answered innocently, and received a black eye from Homer.

"Knock it off, you two!" Rupert growled, "If I want to watch two men pound each other's brains out, I'll put on a Three Stooges short!"

"That's _three_ men pounding each other's brains out," said Homer.

Rupert gave Homer a threatening look. "I can make _this_ three!"

From the control room, Jerry shouted, "I'll toss all three 'a ya onto a hockey rink and play demolition derby with your fannies if you don't break it up right now!"

Homer was about to give her a defiant cheap shot when Rupert held up a quick hand to silence him, and quietly warned, "I've seen her on the ice. She needs a weapons permit to carry a hockey stick."

Satisfied that distraction was over, Jerry went back to her struggles to fix the broken audio mixer for the umpteenth time. "Joe, can you gimme a hand?" she asked in desperation.

"Which one do you want, the left or the right?" Joe answered in his usual sarcastic manner.

"I'll give you my left _and_ my right if you don't watch that smart mouth of yours!" she snapped.

"Joe?" retorted Feathers. "A _smart_ mouth?"

"Polly wanna a cracker shoved up her ass?" retorted Joe.

"Joey wanna broom handle shoved up _his_!?"

"Knock it off, you two!" shouted Ima, stomping into the control room. To Jerry, she asked, "What's wrong with the mixer now?"

"The motherboard shorted out. Again! Any more short circuits, and I swear this thing's gonna melt!"

"Rupert!" Ima called out. "Isn't it time to get a new audio mixer? And I mean a new one instead of digging one out of a junkyard!"

Rupert entered in the control room, replying, "Do you know how much audio mixers cost these days? You saw how much money we've got left in the treasury!"

"What about the emergency fund?"

"All gone," Rhoda replied.

Everyone turned to Rhoda, who was sitting at another control station, trying to build a house out of saltine crackers. "What do you mean, gone!?" demanded Rupert.

"It was an emergency! You've seen on the news about all the drug-resistant bacteria! How much longer before they finally mount their raid on that big narcotics cartel operating on the coast!? As conscientious citizens, we have to be ready to help out in any way we can when our bacterial brethren declare all-out war on drugs! So I used the emergency fund to buy a three-year supply of vanilla-flavored spatulas, so when those big, nasty drug pushers try to sneak out of whatever bowling alley they're skiing in, we'll be ready to give 'em what for!"

It took five full seconds for everyone else to digest what Rhoda said. And it gave all of them indigestion. Finally, hesitantly, Ima asked, "Rhoda . . . why are the spatulas vanilla flavored?"

Rhoda gave her a look like it was the silliest question in the world, and she responded with the silliest answer in the world: "Oh come on! You can't use _strawberry_-flavored spatulas in a drug raid!"

Feathers gave Ima an exasperated look. "Why do you keep asking for it?" she demanded.

"Well, a spatula isn't gonna fix this mixer, vanilla or otherwise," Jerry complained. "I spent fifty-odd years around electronics and machines, and I have no idea how this one managed to keep going this long! And as far as I can see, it ain't gonna go anymore!"

Just then Myran came in. "Not necessarily, Jerry. Let me take a look at it." He pulled out his communicorder from his shirt pocket. Using the built-in scanner, Myran analyzed the monitor and easily detected the fault. "Adjust that component right there and tighten the lead wires," he instructed Jerry.

Jerry did as Myran suggested, and was amazed to see the mixer come back on as if nothing had ever been wrong with it. "Well, I'll be doggoned! Thanks, Myran!"

"No need for thanks. I was just being helpful."

"Helpful isn't the word for it!" declared Fred. "You fixed our webcam, you more than tripled our bandwidth, you hooked up Chip as a backup server when ours exploded . . and now you're setting up a transporter for us!"

"Trans-_mat_," Myran corrected.

"Whatever you call it," Fred continued, "once it's finished, we'll be able to teleport ourselves anywhere on the planet instantly! Think how many more on-location reports we could do, and how much farther away we could do 'em!"

"That's fine," Rupert said. Turning to Myran, he added, "But where are you going to get the power to run it? You're sure as hell not gonna plug it into my electric outlets!"

"Are you joking? Your society's power relay systems could never deliver the necessary energy. I've set up my own portable generator which runs on matter-energy conversion. Just put some matter into it, and it can produce more energy than your entire planet makes in one month."

"Jeanie and I could use one of those at home," Gary said. "You wouldn't believe how much it costs to refrigerate our swimming pool."

"Just one thing," Myran continued. "I worry that the transmat's energy patterns might adversely affect my communicorder's circuitry until I make sure they're properly shielded. Homer, would you put my communicorder someplace safe?"

"Okay, Myran," Homer replied, taking the precious piece of technology from Myran.

"Of course, it's very unlikely the transmat energy _would_ damage it," Myran added, "but why take chances?"

"You're taking chances by letting Homer handle your communicorder," Rupert answered.

As Homer left, Myran chided, "Rupert, if you're going to expect your staff to cooperate with you, you're going to have to trust them. They're just trying to help."

"If _you_ keep just trying to help, you'll be in big trouble with the Planetary Exploration Committee," Ima warned. "You weren't supposed to tell anyone you're an alien to begin with."

"I don't think we have a lot to worry about. The directive of non-interference refers to normal planetary development, and no one would ever accuse any of you of being normal."

Ab Normal suddenly woke up from a daze she'd been in for the past two minutes. "Did somebody call me?" she asked.

"No, Ab," said Joe. "Go back to sleep."

"Oh, I wasn't asleep, Joe!" she replied. "I was just sitting here thinking!"

"The strain must've been horrible."

"Shut up, Joe!" barked Jerry. To Ab, she asked in a much kinder tone, "What were you thinking about, Abigail?"

" . . . . . I forgot."

"The strain was too much," said Joe.

"Too much what?" asked Ab. "Too much money? Then why don't we buy a cheaper strain next time? Or maybe we should find something else to drain our spaghetti with. Or strain it. Hey, have you ever noticed that? You drain with a strain! Isn't that neat? It rhymes! Like Joe rhymes with hoe! Except you can't hoe right now because it's winter, unless you're Santa Claus of course, then you can hoe-hoe-hoe. Which is funny, 'cause I never knew Santa Claus was a farmer! What kind of vegetables can he grow up at the North Pole? Maybe iceberg lettuce? Or snow peas? Gee, is that what I'm gonna find in my stocking next Christmas? What kind of stockings do you wear, Joe?"

Several seconds of silence unexpectedly followed as Ab waited for an answer from Joe, who just stood there staring at Ab. Finally, he asked, "What happened to you?"

"I'll tell you what happened to her!" Ima snapped. "Male chauvinist pigs like you, always assuming every girl in the world is stupid! And then _they_ assume everyone else will assume they're stupid, so they just let themselves become stupid because they assume it's no point trying to become smart 'cause no man will ever take them seriously! Not to mention those same male chauvinist pigs convince them that if they _were_ smart, no man would ever give 'em the time of day and they'd grow up to be lonely old spinsters! Like us women even _need_ men around to be happy! _I_ never needed a man to make _my_ life worthwhile! I never needed a man for _anything_, least of all to tell me how smart or stupid I could be!"

"Ima, you're foaming at the mouth again," said Jerry.

"This is why the court ordered you to have rabies shots!" added Gary.

"C'mon, dear," added Jerry, gently taking Ima by the shoulders and steering her out of the control room. "Let's go work off all that angry energy outside. I'll break out the snowboards."

After Jerry and Ima left to go outside, and Joe left to go mope around some more, Rupert filled up his mug from the coffee maker, which had a fresh batch of coffee in it after the toaster debacle. He took one sip and promptly spit it out. "Blecck! I thought Gary was going to make the coffee this time!"

"Fred said he wanted to take a stab at it," Gary said.

"I'd have a better chance at surviving if he stabbed _me_!"

"Don't you like my coffee?" asked Fred. "I used an old family recipe, grinding the beans between the jaws of a mammoth!"

"Next time, tell the mammoth to take a breath mint first!" After a brief pause, he asked, "Hey Fred, where are the rest of the resumes? I only found one on my desk this morning."

"That's the only one you have."

"That's all!? How come we only have one applicant scheduled for today!?"

Fred hesitated with his answer. "Well . . it's not so much we only have one applicant for today . . . more like, we only have one applicant, period."

"WHAT!? We sent out emails, tweets, we announced the search on our website and at least three dozen job sites! Not to mention every employment agency in every Mid-Atlantic state! And only _one person_ answered!?"

Rupert spun around toward Chip. "Chip, you've been monitoring the internet, didn't anybody else send _any_ kind of response?"

"Affirmative," Chip reported. "In addition to the one applicant scheduled for interview today, there have been five hundred seventeen replies to the job posting.

"_Five hundred seventeen!?_" exclaimed Rupert. "And you didn't report this because . . .!?"

"Because none of them indicated interest in applying for the position."

Nonplussed, Rupert nevertheless replied, "Well, what _did_ they say?"

"Response number one read, 'Why would I want to work for you bozos?' Response number two read, 'Get the hell off the web!' Response number three read, 'I wouldn't work at your dumb studio if you paid me a trillion bucks!' Though I fail to understand why she would be under the misapprehension that you would compensate her services with male deer, or that such a number of male deer even exists on Earth."

"Maybe she'll take some doe instead of bucks," suggested Fred. Everyone ignored him.

"Response number four was quite illogical, an invitation for us to engage in an anatomically impossible variation of the act of procreation. Response number five-"

"All right, all right!" Rupert interrupted, "We get the point!"

Just then a young woman with dark brown hair walked into the control room and exclaimed, "Hey Rupert! Am I interrupting anything important?"

"Iva!" exclaimed Rupert, "we're in the middle of very important Productions business!"

"So that's a no, then."

Iva Blister wasn't a member of the R. C. Gumby Productions staff, she was Rupert's sister who lived down the street. She considered it her personal mission to monitor Rupert's life and let him know when he was doing something useless or stupid or weird. In her opinion, that covered pretty much everything he did.

"If you're gonna barge into my house, can't you at least knock!?"

"And risk having one of your pals answer the door? I just showered this morning!"

"Are you saying were contaminated or something!?" snapped Fred.

To Fred, she retorted, "If stupid is contagious, your so-called studio ought to be declared a quarantine zone!"

"Nobody forces you to come here, you know!" Rupert retorted back.

"I had to _this_ time! Don't you remember? The clothes for the Good Will? The truck'll be here any minute!"

"Oh, that." Rupert impatiently thumbed past the control room. "They're in a wicker basket in the garage."

"Okay!" Iva turned partly to leave, but hesitated in order to add, "You don't mind if I take the whole basket, do you? Just to help carry everything."

"Only if you promise _this_ time to return it right away! I don't want to have to go to your house with a search warrant again to get back something you 'borrowed'!"

"Ex-_cuse_ me!?" she demanded. "I'm still waiting for you to return the cordless drill you borrowed three _months_ ago!"

"_I_ didn't borrow your drill - _Rhoda_ borrowed your drill!"

Iva turned to Rhoda and demanded, "Okay, so where's my cordless drill?"

"_Your_ cordless drill!?" Rhoda demanded back, suddenly outraged. "It's not 'yours' anymore! I set it free!"

" . . . 'Set it free'!?" Iva repeated, wondering for the life of her what Rhoda meant, and at the same time afraid of what it meant.

"All day long, nothing but laying around in a cold, dark closet with no one to play cribbage with! Brought out of the dark only for brief periods where some heartless person like you jams it into a hunk of wood to drill holes in it, nearly choking it to death on shavings and sawdust! Well, no more! I took it out into the woods and set it free, so it can fly south for the winter with all the other cordless drills, and chainsaws, and vacuum cleaners, raise a family of baby drill bits, and live happily ever after in the wilds of downtown Tallahassee!"

Rhoda put her hand firmly on Iva's shoulder, looked her straight in the eye, and declared, "Someday, you'll thank me for this, Iva!"

Several silent seconds of Iva just staring in disbelief at Rhoda were finally broken when Iva muttered, "I'm outta here."

She turned to leave. Fred followed her, saying, "Hold on! Do you know where the Good Will clothes are?"

"Rupert told me! A wicker basket in the garage!"

"But do you know how to get into the garage?"

"Yes! I've been here enough times to find out!"

"Then can you show _me_ how? I keep forgetting!"

Once they were gone, Myran said, "Rupert, if you don't need me for the interview, Chip and I need to finish work on the transmat."

"Myran, you ought to be careful with all that alien tech you brought with you," said Jerry. "If it ever fell into the wrong hands, it'd be a disaster!"

"Relax, Jerry," he assured her. "All the technology I brought is completely under control." With that, he and Chip left the control room.

Rupert turned to everyone left in the room and asked, "Does anyone else think we're finally tipping the plot?"

Everyone else nodded.

**The name of Fred Flintstone is copyright originally to Hanna-Barbera but now to Warner Brothers (I think). No other intention to declare ownership is implied. However, all other characters in this chapter are mine, so there!**


	3. The New Kid on the Block

**Chapter 2**  
**The New Kid on the Block, or**  
**Hello, We Must Be Going**

Rupert, Ima, Jerry, and Gary sat around Rupert's kitchen table facing the only applicant they had for the position of sound engineer: an elderly man with a light grey mustache and goatee. Fred escorted him into the kitchen to a seat at the table opposite the four interviewers, and Rupert picked up the applicant's resume and began:

"Your name is Jacob Thomas Cooperstown Beanbag Sliding Franklin Grape Jelly on Toasted Wheat with an Orange Wedge and a Glass of Milk Peterson, the Fourth. You graduated cum laude from St. Bernie's College of Communications and Plastic Surgery, majoring in film production and minoring in nose jobs. You started out in Bounding, Maine as assistant sound engineer in a recording studio before moving to a position sculpting heads for crash test dummies. Then you took a position with a cable access channel in Ershal, Mass. After that, you ran your own business for four years, performing plastic surgery for criminals leaving the country. Then five years designing license plates, and then a stint as a studio technician for NBC News in New York, which lasted roughly three minutes."

Rupert put down the resume and addressed the applicant directly. "Mr. Peterson, based on the information you've given us, what do you think you can contribute to this company as sound engineer?"

Peterson just stared at Rupert and the others for several seconds without responding, until finally, "I'm sorry, Son, I can't hear a word you're saying. My hearing aid's been on the fritz for weeks."

By the looks on their faces, Rupert and the others were trying to think of comments that wouldn't get censored from this novel. Finally, Rupert stood up, held out his hand and replied, "Well, thank you for coming, Mr. Peterson, we have no more questions. Good day."

Peterson stood up, took Rupert's offered hand, and shook it, asking, "Do I get the job?"

"We'll let you know." No we won't, he thought to himself.

"Oh good! I'll call!" With that, Peterson turned and allowed Fred to escort him from the kitchen.

A few seconds later, Ab and Rhoda came into the kitchen. "That was quick," said Rhoda. "How did the interview go?"

"I think he has promise," answered Gary.

"If the promise is that he'll never come back, I'll take it," Ima muttered.

"It's too bad he didn't work out," Jerry noted. "His resume said his hobbies included skydiving, spelunking, and rugby." To Rupert, she added, "Did you keep his phone number?"

Rupert wasn't paying attention. He was looking at Ab's bare feet and seemed unsure of how to phrase his next question. Or maybe he was afraid of what the answer would be. "Ab . . . why do you have peanut butter all over your feet?"

"And on a probably related question," said Ima, pointing at Rhoda's hand, "what are _you_ doing with an empty peanut butter jar?"

Ab looked down at her feet, waited for a very dim light bulb to go off in her head, and replied, "Oh, that! Rhoda was showing me a new way to cure athlete's foot!"

"Athlete's foot?" repeated Jerry.

"Yeah! I know, it sounds silly that I'd have an athlete's foot, and me not being an athlete . . . unless I had a transplant done without noticing! Is that possible?"

"A volcano could erupt right under this house and you wouldn't notice!" retorted Joe as he appeared behind them in a frustrated mood, with Feathers tightly squeezed between his hands. "Rhoda, tell your talking feather duster here if she builds a nest out of my mops one more time, we're having roast parrot for supper!"

"It's a frame-up!" shouted Feathers. "I haven't gone anywhere near your stinking mops! I haven't gone anywhere near your stinking broom closet!"

"Oh yeah!? Why are my mops as bald as you're going to be when I'm through plucking you!?"

"If I had to guess . . ." Rupert began. "Joe, you mopped up the studio right after this morning's recording, right?"

"Right."

"And shortly before our interview this afternoon, I went into my bedroom which is right underneath the studio and found there were several large holes eaten through the ceiling."

With mild but genuine surprise, Joe replied, "Really?"

"Joe . . ." asked Rupert, with seemingly infinite patience, "by any chance, did you get the floor soap mixed up with the drain cleaner again?"

Realization slowly dawned on Joe, who finally said, "So _that's_ why the bathtub is still clogged but smells like lemons. Great, what am I gonna use to mop the floors now?"

Rupert's seemingly infinite patience vanished. "Use your face!" he snarled. "And whatever's left of the drain cleaner!"

"There isn't any," Joe replied. "I just used the last of it in the coffee maker."

"You _what_!? You don't use drain cleaner to clean a coffee maker!" shouted Ima.

". . _Clean_ it?"

"That's it, I'm switching to tea," said Jerry.

Myran and Chip entered the kitchen. Myran said, "The transmat is finished. Now we can transmit to any on-location site we want anywhere on this planet. We even installed a timer-delay so I can beam out with you, _and_ remote control protocols that are compatible with my communicorder's transmission frequency."

"Never mind all that!" said Ab impatiently. "Can we go places with it?"

"That is precisely what my Creator articulated," Chip replied.

"Sure, but what did he _say_?"

Chip looked up at Myran, his Creator, and said, "My apologies, Creator, but I detect that another one of my logic junctions has suddenly burned out."

"There's a shocker," muttered Joe.

"And here's another one!" said Feathers. And she promptly bit Joe's thumb.

With a screech of pain, Joe released Feathers, who immediately flew out of his reach and landed on Rhoda's head. "I'll have the SCPA on you so fast, it'll blow the stink right off you!"

"Warp drive isn't that fast," Ima retorted.

"Speaking of warp drive," said Jerry, turning to Myran, "are you sure it's okay having all this alien tech here? What if the place gets robbed or something?"

"Nobody's robbing _us_!" insisted Rupert. "I've had the whole place wired for security ever since I started this business! No alien or human tech's getting stolen from here!"

"And Chip and I have made enough improvements on it that no technology known to humans could breach it. Trust me, none of my equipment will fall into the wrong hands."

"Your communicorder fell into Homer's hands," Joe pointed out. "What could be more wrong than that?"

Fred came back into the kitchen and, having overheard the most recent exchange, added, "Not to mention you let a total stranger play with your anti-gravity harness!"

Confused, Myran asked, "What are you talking about?"

Fred led everyone out of the kitchen toward the front door, complaining, "I was just showing Mr. Peterson out, and here's this guy at the front door breaking the law of gravity!"

Everyone gathered around as Fred opened the door to reveal a man, maybe mid-thirties or so, seated serenely in a lotus position. His hands rested on his knees, his eyes were closed, and his entire body floated about three feet above the front stoop.

"See!? What's so special about him that _he_ gets to wear your harness and not us!?"

"He's not wearing my harness," said Myran, "_I_ am." He lifted up his shirt just enough to reveal the strap-on, gravity-canceling harness he brought to Earth for emergencies.

"_You_ are?" asked Fred, thrown for a loop. "Then . . . how . . . ?"

Everyone else stared in amazement at their levitating visitor, who slowly opened his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I decided to meditate while I was waiting for you."

He slowly descended until he was actually sitting on the stoop, whereupon he rose to his feet.

" . . . . O-o-o-h - ka-a-ay," Ima slowly replied.

"Why were you waiting for us?" asked Jerry.

"To apply for the position of sound engineer at your studio. I must apologize for not contacting you first, but I felt our chakras coming into ideal resonance for a face-to-face meeting rather quickly."

" . . . What'd he say?" asked Fred.

"I think he said he's an applicant," declared Rupert. He gestured toward the kitchen. "Please, come in."

The visitor nodded with a smile and followed them into the kitchen. "What's your name?" asked Rupert.

"Philip Harmonik. Please, call me Phil."

"Phil," Rupert repeated. Then he realized: "Phil Harmonik."

Feathers groaned. "That's one point in his favor with _this_ crowd."

"So . . you're into meditation?" asked Gary.

"I'm not 'into' anything. I aspire to achieve perfect spiritual harmony with the universe. And from what I've seen of your company's productions, you're in desperate need of harmony. In addition to offering myself for the position of sound engineer, I offer my experience in helping you to achieve inner peace, and by extension of your productions, bring inner peace to your viewers and customers."

Joe started chanting the instrumental theme to _The Twilight Zone_, while Homer recited, "You are entering another dimension. A dimension of sight and sound, where gravity and sanity are optional -"

"Shut up!" barked Rupert.

Phil gave Rupert a tut-tut look. "That is one of the things I'm talking about. Too often I've seen on your webcasts how loud, unruly, and ill-tempered you and our colleagues are with each other. Not at all conducive to a state of calm. If I had still been meditating when you yelled at them just now, I would've been jolted out of my zero state so hard, I would've crashed back out through the front door and nosedived into the rock garden."

"To be honest," Gary replied, "we don't really think much about how relaxing our webcasts are."

"Relaxation is very important for the mind and body, especially in such a stress-filled environment as this, with so many deadlines and budgetary concerns. Everyone should have an effective means of cleansing yourselves of negative energy through relaxation." Phil turned to Ima. "You're Ima Nutt, right? What do you do to relax?"

"I drink coffee."

Harmonik shook his head as if it was the wrong answer.

"It's decaf!" she protested.

"You think we'd let her drink caffeinated?" added Feathers.

Phil wasn't satisfied. "It doesn't matter whether it has caffeine or not. You can't achieve true inner peace with a chemical substance."

"Are you trying to sneak an anti-drug message into this novel!?" snapped Homer.

"I'm simply trying to say that inner peace must come from within, not from without."

"Well, when I drink the coffee, it ends up _within_ me," Ima insisted, "so what's the problem?

Before Phil could answer, Rupert held up his hands between him and Ima. "Phil, Ima, let's continue this some other time. How about next July? Right now, we need to see if this man will make a good sound engineer, so Phil, how about telling us a little about yourself?"

"Certainly." As he began, Rupert, Ima, Gary, and Jerry sat back down in their same chairs at the kitchen table, while Phil took the seat reserved for the previous applicant. The rest of the staff gathered around the edges of the kitchen to watch.

"I was born in a New York suburb on Long Island. I don't know exactly which one, they blend together so much, it's impossible to tell where one ends and another begins."

"Like the metal and the rust in my car," said Joe.

Phil continued. "The night of my sixth birthday, I had an out-of-body experience in my dreams. In it, I journeyed to a higher level of existence, a realm far above the world we live in."

"You visited the International Space Station!?" asked Ab.

"Impossible," reported Chip. "Based upon scans of ten different indicators of Mr. Harmonik's physical age, I calculate a 99.3% probability that your International Space Station did not exist yet when he was six Earth-years of age."

"Then where did the Millennium Falcon park?"

"There was a parking garage on one of the Telstar satellites," Joe wisecracked.

"This is why I don't let the rest of you in on job interviews!" snapped Rupert.

"And anyway," Myran spoke up, "I think Phil is talking about something more than just going up above the Earth. He means a plane of existence beyond our own physical universe, like being able to escape the confinements of our three-dimensional space and exist in geometries of higher dimensions, which our brains aren't even capable of visualizing."

"Well," Phil conceded, "if you want to make a pointless attempt to reduce it to mathematics, then on a very basic level you're correct. It was a plane where all things had clear meaning, and all meanings were clear. This was the ultimate existence."

With a slight sigh of regret, he continued, "But I couldn't stay. I realized I had to reach this level of being on my own, down a long road of hard work, not through a free ride."

"Good idea," said Fred. "Hitchhiking's dangerous."

Despite the lame-sounding comparison, Phil seemed to agree wholeheartedly. "I once heard about a fellow devotee who tried to attain higher understanding through a kind of spiritual hitchhiking." His face fell into a sorrowful look. "He used to be one of the most brilliant spiritualists the world ever knew."

"What is he now?" asked Jerry.

"The Teletubbies' biggest fan."

"Yikes!" said Rupert. "So, what kind of work was involved?"

"From that day on, I studied everything I could find on metaphysics, spiritualism, transcendentalism, and of course all the world's different religions and philosophies. My parents . . didn't quite know what to make of my search for ultimate truth."

"They thought you had one too many turns on the merry-go-round?" asked Joe.

"I know what that's like!" Rhoda griped. "Can you believe that, to this day, my parents _still_ think I'm strange?"

"Yes!" replied everyone else except Phil.

" . . . . You could've at least hesitated a little."

"Maybe my parents _did_ think I was no longer in my right mind," Phil mused. "But at the time, I hardly noticed. And in the course of my studies, I discovered there was so much more to the world than what we see with our own senses. So much that is beyond our ability to grasp or comprehend. You might call it magic or superstition, but it's so much more than that, and it's real. It's all around us. You can find it for yourself, if you know where to look."

"Here it comes," muttered Homer, "his trip to Tibet or something."

"When I was 17, I journeyed to Tibet -"

"Eat your heart out, Kreskin."

"- to study first-hand under the wise men who have inherited the thousands of years of wisdom -"

"That's just typical!" growled Ima. "It's always wise _men_, isn't it!? Never wise _women_! Men NEVER pay any attention to how much _women_ know or how smart _women_ are! You ask any man in the world, even the ones who CLAIM they're enlightened and can see beyond the fifth dimension, and they can't even imagine any woman being anywhere near as smart as they CLAIM to be, let alone let any woman into their chauvinistic, old-boy-network, secret societies!" She leaned forward right into Phil's face and snarled, "You men are _scum_!"

"You sure you drink only decaf?" asked Gary.

"SHUT UP!"

When attention was turned back toward Phil, he had his eyes closed and his palms pressed together in front of his head, and he appeared to be doing deep-breathing exercises. After several moments of this, his slowly opened and he sighed, "I'm all right now. I'm centered again." He looked straight at Ima and said, "That is another thing I was talking about. Too many of you clearly have deep, boiling wells of rage buried within you, ready to erupt at a moment's notice. You simply cannot continue like this."

He seemed to be looking straight through Ima by this point no, straight _into_ her. "You seem to have a pathological hatred of men. Could it be due to negative experiences you've had with men? Or that other men have inflicted upon you? Enough to burn their marks onto your very soul?"

"So now you're a psychoanalyst as well as a spiritualist!?" she demanded. "Maybe I just think that a woman doesn't need a man to make her life complete! And maybe I'm just sick and tired of men thinking a woman _does_ need a man to make her life complete! And sick of women who fall for it when men tell them women need men to make their lives complete!"

"And sick of men who like women who fall for men telling them women need men and take advantage of women who need men who need women who don't even like men who need women needing men!" exclaimed Rhoda.

Everyone else, including Ima, gave Rhoda strange looks, until she pointed at Ima and insisted, "_She_ started it!"

"And I'm ending it!" insisted Rupert.

"With respect, Mr. Gumby," insisted Phil, "I must point out another person here with a deeply troubled soul." He turned to the troubled soul and continued, "You, Homer Zelchel, also have a lot of buried anger that is slowly poisoning you. I want to help you release your emotional burden and find your center again."

"I already know where my center is, it's right here," Homer replied, pointing at his midriff just above his waist.

"That's your center of _mass_," said Myran.

"With his diet, more like his center of _mess_," quipped Joe.

"_You're_ gonna be a mess in about two seconds!" growled Homer.

"Gentlemen, please!" insisted Phil.

Fred looked around in confusion. "_What_ gentlemen?"

Phil stood up from his chair and approached Homer closely. "Homer, I can feel great pain within you, pain that drives your aura into its state of excessively negative energy. It's not the only driving force, but it contributes, and we can at least end its contribution if you confront it directly. Without its influence, you can start to unlink the chains holding your spirit captive, until it is once more free to ascend to a higher state of being."

" . . . . If I _do_ tell you, will you get out of my personal space? You're scaring the hell outta me."

With a sigh of resignation, Phil backed off. Homer kept his word and explained, "I suppose what bothers me most is losing my mother."

Ima looked at Phil and asked, "You sure you want to hear about this?"

Her tone suggested she wasn't concerned about the emotional impact, but rather the logical impact. Perhaps not realizing the difference, Phil replied, "Of course, Ima." He turned back to Homer and said, "Please, go on."

"It was about ten years ago. She went for surgery at the dentist and there were . . . complications. Due to her being allergic to novocaine."

"They didn't know, and she . . . "

"Oh no, they knew about her allergy, so they used gas instead. But then the dentist was called away to the phone and accidentally left the gas on, and she got pumped up with too much."

"That's terrible. So the gas killed her?"

"No one knows. They lost radar contact with her over France."

Several moments of silence followed as Phil just stared at Homer . . . Better get used to it, these sudden weird punchlines and awkward pauses happen a lot in this story.

Finally, Phil said, "I think that's enough healing for now." He sat back down.

Rupert tried to get things back on track, as warped as the tracks were. "So, Phil . . . ." He failed. "What were we talking about?"

"When I was 17, I journeyed to Tibet -" said the voice of Phil.

"Eat your heart out, Kreskin," said the voice of Homer.

"- to study first-hand under the wise men who have inherited the thousands of years of wisdom -" said the voice of Phil, which everyone now realized was actually coming from Chip, just as Homer's voice just did.

"At that point," said Chip in his own voice, "Ima became highly agitated and disrupted the normal course of the employment interview, however I calculate it unnecessary to replay that section of my memory in detail."

"Thank A.I. algorithms for small mercies," muttered Rupert. To Phil, "How long did you study in Tibet?"

"Eighteen months. After that, I visited India, Southeast Asia, the Australian Outback and several Native American reservations. I talked with scholars and philosophers from many different cultures all over the world, and have come to believe that what we think of as many distinct philosophies and faiths may in fact be one and the same as seen from different points of view. Someday, I hope to prove it."

"I don't know about sound engineer," said Feathers, "but he'd be perfect for a job as a . . . . as a . . . . I have _no_ idea."

"Well, uh, Phil," said Rupert, "to sum up, what do you think makes you the right choice as sound engineer for our company?"

"As I said, I can help your company become, if you'll pardon the theft of an old political phrase, "kinder and gentler." I sensed from the beginning how discordant and chaotic the collective karma was in this place. If this is allowed to continue, your tenuous spiritual union will certainly die. I could help you find harmony again, help your souls find their centers, help you cleanse yourselves of the bad karma soiling your hearts and minds and nullify the negative vibrations that are driving your auras out of synch with the universal song of truth and beauty.

"I could help you become one with the All."

Everyone else in the kitchen did nothing but give him strange looks for another awkward pause.

"Oh," Phil suddenly remembered, "and I have a Master's degree in Communications from Stanford, and seven years of experience as a sound engineer at three different radio and television stations in Massachusetts."

Rupert and the others quickly looked at each other, and then Rupert declared, "That's good enough for us. You're hired!"

Everyone stood up and gathered around Phil to shake his hand and welcome him to R. C. Gumby Productions, in their own ways. Homer's way was, "Don't say we didn't warn you." Feathers' way was, "You're a brave human, Phil." Joe's way was, "Good luck here. You're gonna need it."

"Luck is just an illusion invented by people who don't understand the cosmic forces which guide events in our favor," Phil replied to Joe.

"Then pray all your stars and planets are lined up just right. Actually, ask Myran, he must keep an eye on them all the time."

"Really?" Phil turned to Myran. "Do you study the movements and forces of the cosmos as well?"

"Only to watch out for any future detours in the local space lanes." He turned to Homer. "Speaking of monitoring space, Homer, would you please get my communicorder?"

Homer left the kitchen to fetch it, as Phil asked, "Space lanes? Communicorder?"

Rupert took this one: "Phil, now that you're a member of R. C. Gumby Productions, we can let you in on a little secret. Myran and Chip aren't just our technical support, they're aliens studying Earth's culture to see if we're ready for First Contact."

Phil looked at Myran, and his eyes slowly widened. "I _thought_ there was something different about you! Yes . . . more than anyone else I've ever met, you truly are one with the stars! You have the aura of a traveler and the soul of a being wise beyond almost any measure. And you're here to see if we humble human beings are worthy to share in a more enlightened existence out amongst the stars?"

"You could put it that way."

"Tell me, do you believe we _are_ ready?"

"To use a human phrase . . don't hold your breath."

Phil's face fell. "I was afraid of that." He then knelt down in front of Chip. "And you, Chip . . ." His face screwed up in confusion. "You are also different, but . . . your aura is more like that of . . . static electricity?"

"He's a robot," said Ima.

"A vague and somewhat archaic term," replied Chip. "I am an artificial intelligence in a mobile bipedal casing, with multiple sensory apparatus for continuous monitoring of external conditions."

"But . . . do you have a soul?" asked Phil.

"Of course he does!" said Ab. "He has two of them, right on the bottoms of his cute little feet!"

"Ab, let the big kids handle this, okay?" said Joe.

"Phil is asking if Chip is more than just a machine," explained Gary.

"Of course he is!" exclaimed Fred. "And even if he _started out_ as just a machine, ever since Myran brought him here, we've been teaching him all kinds of stuff about what it means to be more than that, to be a human being, to do and be all the things that make us human beings! How to lie, cheat, insult everybody . . . be illogical, cynical, greedy, an all-around horse's ass . . . We even taught him how to swear!"

"Unfortunately, they are damn good at teaching that," said Chip.

"Chip is going to need _so_ much deprogramming when we return home," Myran lamented.

Phil stood up and laid a sympathetic hand on Myran's shoulder. "I feel for you, my cosmic brother."

"Great," muttered Joe, "now we got two space cases here."

He glanced over at Ab, who was back in her private daze-land. "_Three_ space cases."

Homer returned. "And one hard case," added Joe.

Homer gave Joe a dirty look and retorted, "And one hard _head_."

After a few seconds of waiting, Myran decided he had to prompt him. "Homer? My communicorder?"

Homer gave him a look that was much too innocent to be real. "Communicorder?" he asked.

" . . . Homer!?" Myran instantly regretted trusting Homer with it.

"Don't tell me you lost it!?" exclaimed Rupert.

Homer instantly became defensive. "Of course not! I know exactly where I put it!"

Partially relieved, Myran replied, "Well, okay then!"

"But where I put it isn't there anymore!"

"Isn't there any !" from Rupert. "Where did you put it?"

"In the pocket of those old sweatpants on your bed."

"What did you put it in _there_ for!?"

"You're always saying we can't let Myran's alien tech fall into the wrong hands, so I hid it somewhere no one would think to look."

"And what would've happened if somebody threw those sweatpants in the wash while the communicorder was inside them!?" shouted Rupert. He looked around at everyone. "Is that what happened? Did somebody take them off my bed!?"

"I did," answered Joe. "But relax, I didn't throw 'em in the wash."

"Well, that's _some_ relief!" replied Myran. "Where did you put them?"

"In the garage."

Rupert needed a few moments to process that before asking, "Why in the garage!?"

"I thought those dirty old pants were your work clothes."

"I already _have_ work clothes in the garage! Didn't you notice them on the pegs next to the door!?"

"Yeah, that's why I didn't hang your pants on the pegs next to the door. I hung them on the peg over the recycle bins."

" . . . I don't have a peg over the recycle bins!"

Joe became nonplussed. "No wonder they kept falling on the floor."

Rupert had a sudden urge to bang his head against the nearest wall - or bang _Joe's_ head against the nearest wall - but he resisted long enough to order, "Just go get my sweatpants! NO, wait! _I'll_ get them! I'm not letting anyone else touch them!"

"Too late," said Fred.

Rupert turned slowly toward Fred, who was starting to look very afraid. Rupert became equally afraid of where this was going. "Fred? What did _you_ do with them!?"

Cringing, Fred stammered, "I - I thought they fell out of the Good Will basket . . so I put them in when your sister took it!"

"_You WHAT!?_"

"A-a-a-a-nd the plot begins," said Feathers.

**The name of Fred Flintstone is currently owned by Warner Brothers (I looked it up). No other intention to declare ownership is implied. All other characters in this chapter are copyright to me, so don't _you_ try to declare ownership of them!**


	4. The Search Begins

**Chapter 3**  
**The Search Begins, or**  
**Charity Ends at Home**

"Fred, you idiot!" yelled Joe. "How could you be so stupid!? Throwing Myran's communicorder into a basket of old clothes and getting it sent out to Good Will!?"

"_You're_ the one who tossed Myran's communicorder in the garage where it could _get_ thrown into the Good Will basket!" Homer shouted at Joe.

"And who stuffed it in a pair of sweatpants that someone _might_ toss into the garage, _instead_ of somewhere safe!?" Rupert shouted at Homer.

Ima rounded on Myran. "For that matter, what were _you_ thinking letting Homer handle your communicorder in the first place!?"

"And who shucked Oliver Stone's rutabagas before they were ripe so he ended up eating rutabaga Florentine that was bitter and gave him heartburn!?"

"Not now, Rhoda!" shouted Rupert.

"If the wrong humans find my communicorder and reverse engineer it," said Myran, "they could alter the technological development of this entire planet! Or worse, gain an immense technological advantage over everyone else on the planet and use that advantage for their own ends!"

"They might even try to take over the world!" exclaimed Ab.

"How can you take over the world with a glorified cellphone?" scoffed Joe.

"Steve Jobs did," replied Gary.

Rupert exclaimed, "People, we've got to get to the Good Will shop right now and get that communicorder back! Ima, you take Rhoda, Gary, Ab, and Feathers in your car! Jerry, you take Myran and Chip in your motorcycle!"

Jerry turned to Myran and crowed, "Better strap your helmet on tight, young fella! I just put on new snow tires and souped up the engine again!"

"No fence-jumping on the way!" snapped Rupert. "Phil, you ride with me."

"What about us?!" said Fred, waiting next to Homer and Joe.

Rupert gave them an angry look. "You three can squeeze into the back seat of _my_ car! I'm not letting you idiots out of my sight! And just for good measure, you're dog-sitting Digger in the back seat with you!"

In a rare response to his name, Digger waddled into the kitchen. "Don't tell me you're taking Grampa Growl out of the house again!" exclaimed Ima. "When are you gonna realize he's too old!?"

"_Who's_ too old!?" retorted Jerry.

"You're different, Jerry! You must've been vaccinated with rocket fuel! Digger doesn't have your stamina, he won't last five minutes out of the house without staying conscious!"

"Hogwash!" Jerry bent down toward Digger, who was lying down again, and pet his back. "Don't you listen to that young fuddy-duddy, Boy! You got as much energy and gumption as any dog!"

Digger answered with a loud snore.

Jerry's eyes shifted around quickly, checking how many of the others were watching, and muttered sotto voice to Digger, "I'm tryin' to stick up for ya, Digger. Work with me!"

To everyone's dismay, the local Good Will shop had already shipped everything from Rupert's donation to the regional distribution center in Trenton. The drive there seemed to take hours, especially since Ima's car ran out of gas three miles from the nearest gas station. Ten humans, one alien in human form, one wisecracking parrot, one ancient dog, and one small robot were not about to cram into one car and a motorcycle, so they had to push Ima's car to the station. It was late afternoon by the time they got to the center. Everyone else waited outside while Rupert and Ima went inside to find the missing communicorder.

The front office of the distribution center was occupied only by a desk and computer, a few filing cabinets, a table with a coffee maker and a small printer, and the woman sitting at the desk. She was tall with curly-blonde hair and too much makeup, and for almost half a minute she didn't even acknowledge their arrival as she appeared to be too busy chewing gum and examining her nails for defects.

Another office directly adjoined the first one, which the visitors could see right into thanks to the large picture window in the wall separating them. The second office was similarly furnished but with more expensive-looking counterparts to the first office's furniture, and was occupied by a well-dressed man, probably shorter than the woman, with a small mustache, and a head of hair that was obviously a wig. Unlike the woman, he registered the arrival of the visitors almost immediately. He then looked at the woman, still sitting unresponsive at her desk, and for almost half a minute gave her an exasperated look that said her apathy was all too common.

Finally, he pressed a button on the large, old-fashioned intercom on his desk. His voice came over its counterpart on the woman's desk, in what sounded like some kind of Scandinavian accent: "Mrs. a-Wiggins, would ye please admit the-"

"Hello?" She pressed the Talk button on her intercom, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

An even more exasperated look from her boss, knowing he'd be unable to answer as long as her Talk button was depressed. When he failed to answer through no fault of his own, she let go of the intercom and went back to her nails.

He tried again: "Mrs. a-Wiggins, would ye please admit-"

"Hello?" She did it again. And again she couldn't get an answer, so she let go of the button.

Her boss tried a third time, and this time he hoped to get his instructions through by giving them so fast she wouldn't have time to cut him off:  
"Mrs.a-Wigginswouldyepleaseadmitthe-"

"Hellohellohellohellohello?" She was just as fast on the cut-off, and just as fast with her interruption.

Fed up, the man rose from his desk, walked to the door separating their offices, and stepped through to confront his secretary directly. "Mrs. a-Wiggins, if it won't take a-too much time out of yer busy schedule, we have a-visitors here. Would ye please a-take a-their names?"

It was several long moments before Mrs. Wiggins looked up from her nails toward her boss. Her boss cast his eyes toward the visitors in a blunt attempt to show her where they were. After several more long moments, she finally got the message and turned to the visitors, and looked at them like they were by far the least interesting things she'd ever seen.

"What are your names?" she muttered.

Hoping to get things quickly on track, Rupert elected to just press ahead. "I'm Rupert Gumby, and this is Ima Nutt, from R. C. Gumby Productions in Poker Bluffs."  
With only the slightest acknowledgment, Wiggins went back to examining her nails.

For several more long moments, nothing happened except for her boss staring at her expectantly. Then he finally prompted, "Well?"

She slowly looked up at him and replied, "They're Rupert Gumby and Ima Nutt, from R. C. Gumby Productions in Poker Bluffs," and then went back to her nails.

A few more moments later, her boss demanded, "Don't ye want te know why a-they're here?"

A few more long moments before she looked up and replied, "No."

Rupert turned to her boss. "Do _you_ want to know why we're here?"

Grateful for the reprieve, the man replied, "Yes, of course. Please a-come into my office."

He led them through the door and sat down behind his desk while they remained standing. They noticed the name plaque on his desk read, "Mr. Tudball."

"What can I do fer you?" he asked.

"A woman named Iva Blister made a donation of clothing to the Poker Bluffs Good Will shop earlier today," said Rupert. "They told us it was all sent here. One of my clothes that shouldn't be there got mixed up in it, and I need to get it back." It might have sounded like he was reneging on one donation item, but getting that highly-advanced and potentially-dangerous communicorder back was much more important than what somebody thought of him right now.

"Did a-someone ye know throw it in the basket a-without asking a-you?"

Mr. Tudball's question and understanding look surprised Rupert: "Uh - yes!"

"How'd you guess?" asked Ima.

"I didn't have te guess." Tudball gave his oblivious secretary a dirty look through the window. "My secretary once a-'donated' half a-my office furniture while I was out te lunch. If I hadn't a-got back early, my desk and chair would a-be in a resale shop in a-Timbuk-a-tu by now."

"Timbuktu?" repeated Ima. "Why so far away?"

"This is a international a-distribution center. We send a-donations all over the world from here."

"Meaning if we don't get my sweatpants back, they could end up anywhere in the whole world!?" demanded Rupert.

"The plot sickens," muttered Ima.

Tudball shuffled through the meager pile of papers on his desk, mumbling, "Let's see . . . From Miss a-Iva Blister of a-Poker Bluffs." Apparently not finding what he needed, he pressed his intercom button. "Mrs. a-Wiggins, would ye please a-bring the -"

"Hello?" She cut him off again!

Deciding he didn't want to go through all that again, Tudball flashed his secretary another dirty look through the window, got up, and stepped through their connecting door again. "Mrs. a-Wiggins, would ye _please_ a-bring me the file on a-donations brought in today from a Iva Blister of a-Poker Bluffs?" Then, leaving the door open, Tudball returned to his desk and sat down to wait.

It was nearly five full seconds after he sat down before Mrs. Wiggins finished examining her nails and pulled the retractable keyboard out from under her desk. Then, hunting and pecking one key at a time like a person who'd never even seen a keyboard in her entire life, she called up the file on Iva Blister after an agonizingly long time. She sent the command to print the file. Like her, the printer took way too long to complete its task, and only when it was complete did she stand up from her desk and shuffle ever so slowly to the printer. One by one - and I mean _one_ by _one_ \- she slowly pulled each printed sheet from the printer, looked each one over for the longest time, and then arranged them in a neat stack and shuffled back to her desk with them. Slowly, she opened one of her desk drawers, pulled out a stapler, and then stapled the short stack of papers together. She put the stapler back, taking the extra time to return it to the exact place she found it, and closed the drawer. She then turned on her heel and slowly shuffled around the far side of her desk and toward the doorway into Mr. Tudball's office, at a pace that would let a sloth overtake her.

All the while, Tudball watched her progress with long-suffering disdain. As she finally crept to within a hair's-breadth of the door, he turned to his visitors and sarcastically muttered, "Better stand back, er the wind shear'll knock ye right over."

Wiggins suddenly - suddenly by _her_ standards - looked around as if _she_ thought she was going to be knocked over. When no such thing happened, she placed the stack of papers on Tudball's desk, turned on her heel, and slowly shuffled back to her office without a single word.

"I get the impression your secretary is a little slow," said Ima, her tone implying that it was really the most obvious bit of knowledge in the entire universe.

"You think?" replied Tudball, his tone implying Ima's tone implied absolutely correctly.

"So, why couldn't _you_ look up the information on your own computer?"

"Unfortunately, I'm a-very allergic te dust, and if ye think a-my secretary is a-slow te do her job, ye haven't a-seen the janitor yet. So every time I try te use a-the keyboard -"

Unfortunately, he absent-mindedly demonstrated typing a few keys on it, and stirred up a small but thick cloud of dust that went right into his face. His eyes and nose instantly wrinkled up and he started inhaling sharply, gearing up for a big sneeze. And when he finally let loose with, "Ah-CHOO!", the jerking action of his head flipped his cheap wig off the top of his head like a car hood suddenly flipping open, to hang by its front edge over his face!

The sight of Tudball's forehead suddenly having a hairy awning made Rupert and Ima stare silently for a few seconds, before Rupert finally gave a hesitant, "Gesundheit."

Tudball pushed his wig back down and read through the file. "I have a-good news and a-bad news. The good news is that Iva Blister's a-donation did arrive here on a-schedule."

"What's the bad news?" asked Rupert.

"The clothes have already been a-shipped out."

"Where!?"

Tudball finished reading through the file and replied, "It doesn't say here. Distribution of a-donations is in another file." He started to press his intercom button, but then thought better of it and instead, reluctantly, stood up and walked through the doorway into his secretary's office. "Mrs. a-Wiggins, I need the file -"

"Hello?" she interrupted _again_ while pressing the intercom button.

" - on the distribution of the donations brought in by Miss a-Iva Blister."

Wiggins did a double-take, and she pressed down harder on the intercom button. "_Hello_?" she asked again, totally surprised that she got an answer this time.

Tudball blew a short, sharp whistle, gradually attraction Wiggins' attention to the fact that he was standing right next to her desk. She slowly looked up toward him, and he repeated, "The distribution list of the donations brought in by Miss a-Iva Blister."

Wiggins gave him a blank look. He pointed with exaggeration at the computer. She looked toward the computer. Several moments later, she seemed to get the picture, and she pulled out the keyboard again and started hunting and pecking for each individual key necessary to call up the relevant file.

Tudball glanced at Rupert and Ima through the connecting door. "This a-may take a while," he muttered, "ye might as well a-get comfortable."

Rupert and Ima looked at each other; they both had a feeling he was right.

Except just a moment later, the outer door opened, and they heard Tudball say, "Well it's about a-time! I called you te clean a-my office an hour ago!"

"Must be the janitor," Ima muttered to Rupert.

Rupert looked out the window. He then looked askance at Ima and said, "This could take _another_ while."

At least half a minute later, the janitor finally wheeled his utility cart into Tudball's office at a pace that made Wiggins look like an Olympic sprinter. Rupert and Ima figured it was at least partially due to the fact that he looked over a hundred years old. Underneath a head of unkempt snow-white hair, his face bore a passing resemblance to Tudball's - maybe the janitor was his grandfather - and he looked like just shuffling halfway across Tudball's office was enough to exhaust him. He did have enough energy left to start wheezing a song to himself, but his tired, ancient, mumbling voice made it nearly impossible to understand most of the words.

Of course, since the song was "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana, they wouldn't have understood the words anyway.

After parking the cart behind Tudball's desk, the janitor slowly pulled out a feather duster and started sweeping it across the desk, over the name plaque, over the computer monitor, kicking up clouds of dust in all directions. One of them went right into Ima's face, and she violently sneezed.

The janitor paused. He slowly raised his head toward Ima, and then he reached over and swept the feather duster across her face, sweeping off some dust before she vigorously shooed him away with, "Knock it off!" She let loose another violent sneeze.

Instead of dusting her face again, the old man replied with a slow, mumbled, "You should take something for that cold."

He resumed his dusting of the desk, this time over the intercom. In doing so, he must have tripped the Talk button, because a moment later, Wiggins' voice came out of the intercom saying, "Hello?"

The janitor paused briefly to respond with a mumbled, "Hello," and then resumed dusting.

Rupert was getting more and more impatient. "How much longer is this gonna take?" he demanded to no one in particular. He looked through the window to Wiggins' office, where she was _still_ hunting and pecking at the keyboard while Tudball looked exasperated enough to flip his wig again. "That communicorder could be flying out of the country already while we're standing here twiddling our thumbs and -"

He stopped when he realized the janitor was spritzing the back of his coat with furniture polish. Rupert turned around while the janitor continued spritzing, getting the spray around his side and front as well. Then the janitor began slowly wiping Rupert's front with a polishing cloth.

"Do I look like a piece of furniture to you!?" demanded Rupert.

"He _is_ polishing a chest, isn't he?" wisecracked Ima.

The janitor then slowly turned toward Ima, still holding the spray and cloth.

"Don't even _think_ about it!" she warned.

"_Can_ he think about it?" asked Rupert.

The janitor slowly turned back toward Rupert, and gave him a sly smile and wink.

"I guess he can."

To his surprise, Rupert felt uncontrolled giggles breaking through his normally deadpan demeanor at the ancient janitor being able to think about it.

"Oh, you think that's funny!?" snapped Ima.

Slight giggles escaped from Rupert's lips as he replied, "I can't help it! The thought of him - *Mmph!* - making a pass at you . . !"

"He better have plenty of life insurance if he does!"

"I just had another thought - him and Jerry!"

"Jerry!?" Ima exclaimed. "Even if she was interested, she'd run him right into the ground on the first date! _Before_ the first date! Do you know, the first guy she started dating after her husband died was fifteen years younger than her, a marathon runner, and a retired firefighter? Two days later, they had to put him on oxygen in a nursing home!"

Ima and Rupert suddenly whirled around. While they'd been talking, the janitor had shuffled over to the filing cabinet and started polishing the top of it. He apparently tripped the latch and the top drawer shot out of the cabinet. It caught the janitor and swept him off his feet, and somehow it was a _lot_ longer than the size of the cabinet implied, for it carried him almost all the way across the office! He uttered a frightened moan all the way until it reached its full, enormously extended length, and then it recoiled and slid all the all way back into the cabinet, with him still riding on it.

And then it recoiled again and shot him across the office and back again. By this time, he'd stopped moaning in fear, and in fact, for his third trip back and forth, he uttered an excited and extended, "Wheeeeeeeee!'

And now Rupert was totally cracking up with laughter. Even Ima couldn't control the giggles anymore.

They were interrupted when Tudball reentered the office with a piece of paper. "Mr. Gumby, I have a-the distribution list a-fer you." Rupert and Ima composed themselves just enough to pay attention: "The clothes were a-shipped out to five a-separate places. Two trucks a-took some of them to Brooklyn and Atlantic City. The rest are being a-shipped a-by plane to Houston, Texas, Saint a-Louis, Missouri, and to Athens, a-Greece." He handed Rupert the paper. "Here's a-the details."

Tudball suddenly inhaled sharply and sneezed, flipping his wig over his face again! It instantly nullified whatever dismay Rupert and Ima had about his news, and they started laughing again.

When Tudball recovered, he noted sarcastically, "I see the janitor's a-been busy."

He, Rupert, and Ima looked at the janitor, who had managed to close the top drawer while they were distracted, and pop open the second drawer from the bottom instead. He was now riding that drawer back and forth across the room like a bronco buster, wheezing, "Yippie-yi-yaaaaaaaay!"

A fourth person stepped into the office, a middle-aged cleaning woman in a shabby dress and shawl, with a dirty mop in her hand, a rumpled kerchief jammed over her head, and a face that bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Wiggins - maybe her sister? "He's at it again, is he?" she noted sarcastically as she saw what the janitor was getting up to.

"Time a-te up his a-medication again," Tudball replied.

"I can see you're busy, so we'll be on our way," Rupert said hastily. "Thanks for the information."

As he and Ima eased past Tudball and the cleaning woman toward the door, the cleaning woman suddenly tugged her earlobe. She answered Rupert and Ima's confusion by saying, "Watch where you step, I lost my earring again. I gotta stop wearing clip-ons."

As they stepped out of the center, Rupert and Ima paused and looked at each other.

"Did those people seem . . . familiar?" asked Ima.

They both thought about it for a few seconds before finally muttering in unison, "Nah." It wasn't a dismissal of something as being unlikely, so much as a hopeful denial of something as being too crazy to be true.

They rejoined everyone at the cars, where Rupert filled everyone in on the situation and outlined his plan of action. "All right, let's look this situation over carefully."

Ab looked around. "Well, there are three big trucks in this lot, and one more is just driving up. The loading area is in front of the building, and there are a whole bunch of containers of donated stuff there. Clothes, canned food, toilet paper - Say, have you ever noticed that TV commercials and the labels on the packages never ever say toilet paper. They always call it bathroom tissue. I always thought that was the silliest thing in the world."

"Right now, I think _you're_ the silliest thing in the whole galaxy!" Homer retorted.

"Negative," replied Chip. "Averaging across all compiled lists of beings, locations, and items based upon such an emotional and subjective characteristic as 'silliness', most beings are of the opinion that the distinction of 'silliest' belongs to the quasi-intelligent fungus-simians who reside on the planet Lintball."

"There is a planet called 'Lintball'?" asked Phil.

"Is that in the same area as the planet Hairball?" asked Feathers.

"There is no planet officially designated 'Hairball' anywhere in known space, however there is a second habitable planet in the same system, designated Splat -"

"Never mind, Chip!" exclaimed Myran. To Rupert, he added, "My communicorders' battery and circuitry emissions are damped to avoid unauthorized detection. Neither Chip nor my spare communicorder can detect the missing one unless it's within two Earth-kilometers distance!"

"That's why we'll have to go after it!" declared Rupert. "There're five places it might be going. The only way we'll get that communicorder back is to split up and go to each of those places and search every possible charity shop or wherever!"

"Far be it from me to deny the urgency of the situation," said Phil. "I know full well what the consequences can be of allowing others to gain knowledge beyond their wisdom to use properly. But it's getting late, and even those most in tune with their selves need food and rest."

"Rest? I haven't even hit my second wind yet!" proclaimed Jerry. "But I'll admit, I _am_ gettin' hungry."

"Captain Karma has a point," said Homer. "We're all tired and hungry -" He glanced at Jerry. "Or just hungry, and your sweatpants are gonna be locked up tight inside a truck or a plane until at least tomorrow morning."

Rupert, Ima, and Myran clearly wanted to argue the point, their anxiousness to immediately retrieve the precious communicorder wrestling with the needs of their compatriots and the fact that Homer, of all people, had given surprisingly logical evidence that they had more time to work with.

"All right!" Rupert reluctantly snapped. "We'll head home, get supper and sleep, and meet back at the studio at seven o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late, and pack enough to be gone for a few days!"

Rupert's party (one of those kinds that doesn't know when to stop) reconvened at the Gumby house first thing the next morning. There was barely enough space in Rupert's living room for him and his co-workers and all the luggage everyone brought.

"I said pack enough for a _few days_!" he shouted to everyone. "This is not a two-week vacation! This is a serious mission!"

"Serious? Us?" Feathers muttered. "That'll be the day."

"Shut up!" Rupert replied.

"Rupert!" Phil insisted. "Be calm. Find your center. Find your inner peace."

"How can anyone find _anything_ in this mess?" retorted Ima.

"The only thing we have time to find is my communicorder!" insisted Myran.

"Myran's right!" Rupert replied. "We talked it over before the rest of you got here, and while Brooklyn and Atlantic City are both within driving distance, the best way to get to the other three cities is by transmat."

"And fortunately," added Myran, "I can use my spare communicorder to operate the transmat by remote control to bring us all back afterwards."

Rupert continued: "Who's got international calling plans on their cell phones?"

Ima, Phil, Homer, and Joe raised their hands.

"And who's kept up the payments on their international calling plans?"

Joe, and Homer lowered their hands. Rhoda raised hers. "Wait, so you have an international calling plan too?" asked Rupert. "Why didn't you raise your hand before?"

"You asked if I had one on my _cell phone_," she replied. "I have mine on my can opener."

"How can you use a can opener to make phone calls!?" demanded Fred.

"Who said anything about phone calls? I use an international plan to open imported foods! You know, Chow Mein? Vienna sausages? French fried onions?"

"You mean, all this time I've been _smuggling_ when I eat Chow Mein!?" cried Ab, horrified. "How could I have been so dumb!?"

" . . . I'm not gonna say it," muttered Feathers. "It's too easy."

"_AN_-yway!" interrupted Rupert. "Phil, you take Ab and Feathers in your car and drive to Brooklyn. Jerry, you, Rhoda, and Chip head for Atlantic City. Myran, you transmat yourself, Homer, and Joe to St. Louis, Ima and Gary to Athens, and Fred, Digger, and me to Houston."

"You're sending me to Greece!?" Ima exclaimed.

"Oh boy!" cried Gary. "Sunny skies, warm Mediterranean seas, and romantic Grecian nights! Can I bring my wife!?"

"Don't let yourselves get too excited," Rupert replied firmly. "Like I said, this isn't a vacation!"

"_I'm_ not excited," shouted Ima. "I'm furious!"

Everyone else did a double-take. "Come again!?" asked Gary.

"Romantic Grecian nights, my foot! Greece, Italy, Spain, France, those Mediterranean countries are all the same! Their idea of romance is big, sweaty, sex-crazed men flaunting their machismo on every street corner and lusting after every female between puberty and menopause! No young, attractive, sexy woman is safe anywhere in those places!"

"Then you don't have anything to worry about," said Joe.

DUE TO EXTREMELY VIOLENT CONTENT, THE NEXT THIRTY SECONDS OF THIS SCENE HAVE BEEN CENSORED.

"People, _please_!" pleaded Phil. "All of this negative energy will poison your souls forever if it is allowed to overwhelm the positive! You _must_ learn to contain your inner demons!"

"I couldn't agree more!" moaned the voice of Joe, from wherever his mouth was in the mashed-up pile of flesh that Ima turned him into.

"Enough already!" shouted Rupert. "Everyone who's driving, grab your stuff and get going! The rest of us, down to the basement to beam out! Somebody scoop up Joe and bring him along!"

Phil, Jerry, Ab, Rhoda, Chip, and Feathers had already left by the time everyone else had carried all their baggage down to the basement and stood before Myran's transmat, a three-by-four-meter stage with an equal-size scanning canopy built into the ceiling directly over it. Myran stood before the control console just off to one side while Ima and Gary finished loading onto the transmat stage a pile of luggage that would give Mr. T a hernia.

"We're all set to go!" Gary exclaimed. "How long does it take to transport us?"

"That depends on how long it takes for the transmat to scan the subatomic structure of all your luggage," Myran answered, sarcasm infusing his reply.

Homer looked at Gary's excessive possessions. "This could take weeks."

Ima and Gary took their places on the transmat stage. Homer was about to say something else, but Rupert cut him off with, "I'll clobber the first one who says, 'Beam me up Scotty, there's no intelligent life on this planet!'"

"Are you ready?" Myran asked.

"Energize," Ima said.

Myran manipulated the controls, and Ima, Gary, and their effects were surrounded by glowing energy beams which scanned them and then converted their mass to energy stored on waves of hyper-radiation which nothing known to Earth technology could possibly detect. The energy was then sent on its way to Athens, Greece.

Rupert picked up Digger and turned to Fred. "Our turn."

Rupert carefully placed Digger into the front basket of a ten-speed bicycle with a lot more accessories than average, while Fred loaded his and Rupert's backpacks in the two baskets straddling the rear wheel. They then wheeled the severely tricked-out bike up onto the stage.

"Coordinates are set," announced Myran. "Stand by."

He activated the controls, and Rupert, Fred, Digger, and their backpacks and bicycle disappeared in a blaze of energy.

"Okay, everyone else has beamed out," muttered Homer. "Can we go now?"

"Just be patient," answered Myran. "The coordinates have to be very precise. You don't want to end up in Rio de Janeiro, do you?"

"What's wrong with Rio?" asked Homer.

"Do you know how hot it gets in Rio this time of year? You know I hate hot weather," answered Myran. "Okay, it's ready. Everyone on the platform."

Homer helped Joe's slowly healing body stagger into the transmat. Myran paused only to pick up his spare communicorder and to set the timer on the console. He then joined Homer and Joe on the platform and waited. Five seconds later, the transmat hummed to life and the three travelers were surrounded by yet another blaze of energy.

Just before they disappeared, Joe mumbled, "Is there a bathroom on this flight?"

"I told you to go before we left!" Homer retorted.

"I couldn't pull myself up onto the toilet!"

**The characters of Mrs. Wiggins, Mr. Tudball, the World's Oldest Man, and the Cleaning Lady are copyright to The Carol Burnett Show, with thanks to Carol Burnett and Tim Conway for bringing them to life. Fred Flintstone's name is copyright Hanna-Barbera and Warner Brothers. All other characters are copyright to me.**


	5. Athens Espionage

**Chapter 4  
Athens Espionage, or  
Grecian Hair-Raiser Formula**

Athens, Greece. Today, it is the capital of a relatively small country in southeastern Europe, but 2,500 years ago it was the political and cultural center of a great civilization. It was here that the concept of democracy was born to the world, a concept which was passed down through the centuries and became the basis for the system of government of many nations today. In addition to its importance to ancient history, Athens was also the home to many of Greece's greatest writes, thinkers, and builders. Socrates and Plato are among the wisest and best-known citizens of ancient Athens. Their works still survive to this day, as do many of the city's finest architectural structures: the Parthenon, the Erechtheum, and the Temple of Hephaestus. Athens is one of the oldest cities in the Western world, and one of the most important in Western history. In many respects, Athens was the birthplace of Western civilization.

The preceding paragraph has been paid for by the Tourist Bureau of Greece, with offices in Athens, Thessaloniki, Piraeus, Edessa, and Cucamonga.

Jonathan Kerachi was busy working at his seafood store on Piraeus Street a few blocks from Omonoia Square. Despite the fact that it was late in the day, he knew a huge supply of lobster caught just off the coast of Crete would be arriving at the crack of dawn next morning, and he had to clear space for it. He had already finished putting all of his displays of fish and clams and other seafood delicacies into order. Just as he finished sweeping up the floor, he heard a strange noise coming from the back room, followed by multiple wet thuds and squishes. He rushed into his storeroom and was shocked to see a man, a woman, and a huge pile of suitcases floundering in a tank full of his best mackerel.

"When I get back to Poker Bluffs," Ima grumbled, "remind me to punch Myran's lights out."

It was then that they noticed the store-owner staring open-mouthed at them, both shocked at having two people appear from out of nowhere in his storeroom, and steaming mad at having two people sitting in his best mackerel. He started babbling angrily in a rapid string of foreign words which neither Ima nor Gary could understand in the least.

[Several days after the communicorder search was completed, the R.C. Gumby Productions staff succeeded in getting the storeowner's words translated. Full details of the quote cannot be given without assigning this novel a minimum rating of Mature, but part of the speech contained a reference to a form of ancient torture called "trusini." Further research revealed that in trusini, the victims are stripped naked and doused in goat spit, cow sweat, and olive oil. They are then plastered with two thousand barnacles, and have knives thrown at them by a blind soothsayer. If they survive this far, they are tied to the exposed sides of chariots, and the chariots are used for five days of races, demolition derbies, and crash safety tests. Then the victims' remains are gathered up and fed to a herd of sheep. After three more days, they are gathered up again and mixed with sand and glue, to be used as mortar for laying stones on heavily-traveled roads.]

Ima and Gary thought it best to leave immediately. Stopping only to gather up the luggage and pull fish out of their clothes, they were soon on their way walking down the street. Well, maybe _staggered_ down the street is more accurate, given that the incredible mass of luggage weighted them down so much, they could barely move.

"Maybe I could've gotten along without the water skis," groaned Gary.

"Maybe you could've thought to bring a luggage rack or something!" groaned Ima.

"Why didn't _you_!?"

"_I_ don't have one!"

"And you think _I_ do!?"

"You've got kids! Don't they have a wagon or something?"

"Who plays with wagons anymore!?"

Rounding a corner, they encountered a group of spectators watching a mime performance. Ima and Gary dropped their luggage so they could pause and watch. The sound of the avalanche interrupted the performance so bluntly, everyone turned to them, including the mime, and from the way the spectators looked, Ima and Gary had just destroyed U.S.-Greece relations for decades to come.

As it turned out, the performance only lasted a few more minutes after it resumed, after which the mime took a bow and the crowd dispersed. Once everyone else was gone, the mime approached Ima and Gary and spoke in a low whisper, "There was a young woman named Bright."

Gary thought for a moment and replied, "Whose speed was much faster than light."

"She set out one day in a relative way."

"And came back on the previous night."

The mime immediately shoved a small package into Gary's load of luggage and strolled off in an overly-casual manner.

"_That_ was weird!" exclaimed Ima.

"I'll say!" answered Gary. "I thought mimes never talked!"

"I mean, what's with the tag-team poem and the package!?"

"I just thought he needed help remembering that poem. I didn't know he was going to give me a present for it." He took a close look at the package, which was wrapped in a plain brown paper bag. "I wonder what's inside."

"In a plain brown wrapper? You really want to know?"

Gary thought for another moment and asked, "What's this story's rating again?"

"PG."

"In that case, I don't."

"Anyway," Ima added, "thanks to the time difference, it's already late afternoon. We need to find a hotel."

Gary looked at their mountain of baggage. "With about a dozen bellhops."

It took them about half an hour to pick up all their luggage and get moving again. Little did both of them know that they were being watched by two men from the window of an old rundown building across the street. Why they were showing such interest in the two Productions staff was unknown at this point - why _anybody_ would show such interest in two Productions staff is beyond me - but whatever their reasons were, they carefully emerged from the building and began following them.

What's even stranger is these two guys weren't the only ones. There was a third man hidden in the shadows of an alley between two other buildings on the other side of the street. When the first two guys were out of sight, he emerged from the alley and followed them as well. Or was he following Ima and Gary? At this stage, who knows?

_At this stage, who cares?_

Who asked you!?

Unaware of the attention being paid toward them, Ima and Gary lugged their load into the first hotel they found with a Vacancy sign out front. At least, they thought it was a Vacancy sign . . . None of them were in English, so they _hoped_ the sign said "Vacancy" and not something like "No Solicitors", or "Out to Lunch", or "Trespassers Will Be Torn Limb from Limb".

"Why would they tear trespassers limb from limb?" asked Gary as they entered the hotel lobby.

"Different country, different penal code," replied Ima.

Gary started choking back giggles. "What!?" demanded Ima.

"You said, 'penal' code!"

"Grow up!"

Gary indignantly dropped his luggage on the floor with a loud crash and shot back, "You're telling _me_ to grow up!? After the way you reacted five minutes ago!?"

"I am _not_ sharing a room with you! You're a married man and I'm a single woman!"

"And we're _both_ mature enough to respect each other's privacy and to not act like rabbits in heat the minute we're in the same room and the lights go out! Besides, we don't know how long we're gonna be here, and we don't have much money between us! One room with two separate beds costs a lot less than two separate rooms!"

"Don't have much money!? I've seen how many credit cards you have in your wallet!"

"I also have three kids!"

Ima couldn't argue that point. Nevertheless, "You swear you won't try anything!?"

"Like you said, I'm a married man. A _faithfully_ married man, 'til death do us part! Besides, I remember what happened to the last guy who _did_ try something! Thanks to you, I can't even _look_ at a jackhammer anymore!"

The memory briefly turned Ima's mouth into an evil smirk, then it vanished and she nodded her head curtly at Gary. An understanding thus come to, they approached the front desk. The equipment on the desk wasn't exactly state-of-the-art: There was no computer in sight, the register was a big old-fashioned book, and there was a push-button bell that one was supposed to ring for service.

Ima slapped her hand on the bell to ring it, and to her and Gary's surprise, the desk clerk popped up from evidently having been crouched down behind the desk. With an excited look and a wide grin, he announced, "Empty Arms Hotel!"

Ima and Gary looked at each other. There was something familiar about this guy . . .

Ima pushed the thought aside for the moment and replied to the clerk, "We need a room. Two separate beds."

The enthusiastic clerk replied, "Certainly, Ma'am! What kind of room would you like? We have Third Class, Second Class, and Deluxe Suites."

Gary turned to Ima. "Limited funds, remember?"

"I remember!" she replied impatiently. To the clerk, "What does a Third Class room have?"

"Four walls and a door."

Ima and Gary needed a few seconds to take that in, and then Ima exclaimed, "That's _all_!? No furniture, just four walls and a door!?"

"I hope a Second Class room has more than that!" added Gary.

"Yup! In Second Class, you get a light bulb."

"Is this Empty Arms Hotel or Empty _Rooms_ Hotel!?" retorted Ima.

Gary tamped down his fear of going broke and asked, "Okay, what's a Deluxe Suite like?

"Oh, fully furnished, Sir! Two beds, a bath, kitchenette, walk-in closet, and everything!"

"That doesn't make any sense!" exclaimed Ima. "How come your Second and Third Class rooms don't have any furniture at all!?"

"We ran outta coal for the furnace."

Ima turned to Gary. "Maybe your tents and sleeping bags were a good idea after all."

The clerk hurried around the desk. "Now, don't be so hasty, folks! Maybe not all our rooms are four stars, but we make up for it in innovation!"

As the clerk slowly moved across the room, directing Ima and Gary to the lobby's features, Gary asked, "What kind of innovations?"

"Efficiency, Sir! Efficiency! How can we keep our prices so low in this tough economy? By economizing in more ways than any other hotel ever dreamed of! All of our amenities are multi-purpose - each one serves at least two separate needs, thus cutting our costs by at least half AND providing unique experiences in guest comfort!"

"Like, what two needs for instance?" asked Ima.

"For example, we combined our sauna bath with the chef's pantry."

From out of nowhere, several loud voices shouted, "WHAT'D YA GET!?"

"Steamed vegetables with every meal!"

As the clerk started laughing out loud - as did the voices from nowhere - a long, vertical wall slat actually swung up from the wall and spanked him on his rear end!

As the clerk went back to his desk, Ima and Gary quickly turned on their heels and speed-walked out of the hotel, careful to avoid any more interaction with the clerk and any part of the wall.

After a few more tries, Ima and Gary finally found a hotel with a vacancy and furniture in most of the rooms. Their survey of the room they signed in for was interrupted by a gigantic crash as the bellhop, who had been doubled over and practically crushed under the weight of their baggage all the way from the lobby, finally collapsed and was buried under the mountain of bags.

"Is this a good place?" moaned the bellhop, his voice muffled under the luggage.

"That's fine, thanks," Ima replied.

The bellhop dug his way out of the luggage avalanche, struggled to his feet, and held out his hand. Gary shook it, saying, "Thanks, Pal."

The bellhop kept his hand out even as Gary let go of it. Ima said softly into Gary's ear, "I think he wants a tip."

"Oh, right!" Gary turned back to the bellhop and said, "Don't try to carry so much in one trip."

The bellhop gave up and left, wondering if he could at least ask for hazard pay after this job.

Gary turned back to Ima. "How long do you think before the communicorder arrives in Athens?"

"According to Rupert's list, the clothes shipment left on an overnight flight and it's due to land right about now. Figure another few hours to unload the plane and send the clothes to the shop on the list. Of course, it's already getting dark so the shops'll close soon, so it looks like we have another night to wait."

"In that case, I wanna see what's in that package. PG rating or otherwise."

Gary retrieved the mysterious package from the luggage, sat down on one of the beds, and unwrapped it. Inside the box was a bunch of electronic components and a computer flash drive. "What's all this?" asked Ima.

"It's a bunch of electronic components and a computer flash drive," Gary answered.

"I heard him the first time! I mean, why did that mime give them to you?" Ima paused for thought, and then added, "I think we should call Myran and have him beam us back with these things. He or Chip'll probably be able to figure out what they're for."

Ima pulled out her cell phone and dialed a special number that would link directly with Myran's spare communicorder. After just one ring, a smug automated voice answered: _"We're sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Your international calling plan has expired -"_

"WHAT!?" shouted Ima. She immediately hung up and dialed another number.

"Who're you calling?" asked Gary.

"The cell phone company! I made a payment on my calling plan just last week, and I'm not letting them cheat me out of it!" She put the phone to her ear and waited for an answer.

_"If you're calling about your local calling plan, press One. . . . If you're calling about your long-distance plan, press Two. . . . If you're calling about your international plan, press Three. . . "_

Ima impatiently thumbed Three.

_"If you'd like to make a payment, press One. . ."_

"I already made a payment!"

_"If you'd like to change your current calling plan, press Two. . . . If you're reporting a problem, press Three. . ."_

"Damn right, I'm reporting a problem!" she snapped under her breath as she thumbed the Three again.

_"If you're experiencing a problem accessing Call Waiting, press One. . ."_

Ima was rapidly losing what little patience she had left.

_"If you're calling to report an outage in your area, press Two. . ."_

"HOW THE HELL CAN I CALL TO REPORT THAT I CAN'T CALL ANYONE!?"

_"If you're experiencing a problem with your current calling plan, press Three. . ."_

Ima's finger stabbed the Three on her phone.

_"If you are unable to access the total number of minutes allotted to the current month of your calling plan, press One. . ."_

"AAAAAAAAAGGHHHH!"

Ima's thumb almost pile-drove right through the OFF button on her phone. "WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON THE SLIMY, SWINDLING PILES OF HUMAN GARBAGE WHO RUN THIS BLEEP-ING PHONE COMPANY, I'M GONNA - . . . What the hell just happened!?"

"Like we said, this is a PG story!"

"I don't give a BLEEP! what this damn story's rating is! My cell phone company's robbing me blind, and then they stick me with this automated brush-off system that goes on and on and on like a broken record, hoping I'll eventually give up trying to call them and yell at them to give me what I paid for!

"Never mind calling your phone company!" shouted Gary. "We can't contact Myran to have him beam us back to the studio! We're marooned in a foreign country with no transportation, and I didn't even get a chance to get my money exchanged!"

Ima's rage abruptly subsided enough to register confusion at that last part of Gary's outcry. "Why do you need to exchange money when you got all those credit cards!?"

Gary's expression turned sheepish, and after a brief hesitation he reluctantly confessed, "All but one are toys. I just keep them to make me look more important."

The implications made the rest of Ima's rage subside, to be replaced with apprehension. "So, just how limited are our funds then?"

"Is it dinner time?"

"Probably."

"How do you feel about splitting a cheese sandwich?"

"How do you feel about a knuckle sandwich!?"

After a moment of decision, Gary replied, "Nah, I don't feel like finger food tonight."

Before Ima could slap him silly for that . . make that slap him silli_er_ . . Gary pulled out his wallet and started counting what little American money he had with him. At the same time, the two mysterious strangers from earlier - that's the _first_ two who were together, not the third stranger, in case you're trying to keep track - carefully peeked into the room through the open window. Their four beady, sinister little eyes, one of which was covered with a monocle, stared at Ima and Gary. Slowly, the two men each held up a pistol, one aiming at Gary, the other at Ima.

"Ready," whispered the monocle owner. "Aim. . . Fire!"

At the same instant he hissed, "Fire!" Gary fumbled his wallet onto the floor. He and Ima simultaneously bent down to grab it, and their foreheads collided with a loud "Konk!" at the same instant two tiny darts shot out of both pistols, whizzed a few scant inches over their heads, and embedded themselves into the far wall.

Immediately upon impact, the darts injected their liquid contents into the wall and then quickly dissolved into nothingness.

The two would-be marksmen ducked out of sight as Ima and Gary stood up, rubbing their aching foreheads. Ima exclaimed to Gary, "Why don't you watch what you're doing!"

To her surprise, Gary swatted the air above him. "Why don't those _mosquitoes_ watch what they're doing?"

"What mosquitoes?"

"One just buzzed over my head. Didn't you hear it?"

"No, I was too busy getting a concussion!"

"You can get some ice at the restaurant. I saw one just down the street from here." His wallet back in his pocket, Gary started to turn toward the door, but then changed his mind and turned toward the bed. "Better not leave that package here." He grabbed the mystery package, and he and Ima left the room just as their two shadows peeked through the window again, pistols at the ready again but this time with no targets.

The two men crouched down below the window again. The one with the monocle had frustration written all over his face, and shook his fist in a fit of pique. "They've gone!" he snapped in a Germanic accent. "We missed our chance!"

The other man was older and pudgier than the first, and had a full head of gray-white hair and a matching bristle mustache. "A pity these guns take so long to reload."

"I know! Why did they insist on us using poison darts and these clumsy guns against those spies when a regular gun with a silencer works just as well? emBetter/em, even! We could've shot them several times in one go, and have the package by now!"

His partner replied with a shrug, "But you have to admit, these disintegrating darts leave a lot less evidence behind than bullets, Herr Colonel."

"_Schultz!_" hissed the colonel suddenly. "How many times do I have to tell you, while we're on assignment, _only_ call me Klink! Even though I outrank you -" Klink leaned close to Schultz and emphasized, "by a _lot_! - our identities must be kept top secret!"

Schultz proudly replied, "You have _nuh_-thing to fear, Herr C- . . I mean, _Klink_! No one will ever learn who you or I really are from _me_. If anyone tries to force the truth from me, I know _nuh_-thing!"

Klink gave Schultz a withering, disbelieving look. "Really. Not even if they forced you."

"Lock me in the deepest dungeon - torture me - threaten me with death - I will _never_ tell!"

"What if they bribe you with chocolate?"

Schultz's resolve crumbled. ". . . Eh . . . how much chocolate?"

Klink shook his fist in another fit of pique and retorted, "Come o-o-on! They're getting away with the package!" He and Schultz got up and hurried around the hotel to try and catch up with their quarry.

Quarry is the perfect word for two rock-heads like Ima and Gary.  
"I HEARD THAT!" she roared.

Ima and Gary found a charming little restaurant just two streets down from the hotel, and had two delicious meals. Their enjoyment disappeared when they found out the restaurant didn't accept American money. Seven hours, 417 washed dishes, and 39 broken dishes later, they finally dragged themselves half-conscious back to the hotel in the middle of the night. Ima collapsed onto her bed and fell asleep without even changing her clothes first. Gary had just enough strength left to detour to the bathroom and put band-aids on the three cuts he sustained while picking up broken glasses. Then he too collapsed onto the bed. Unfortunately, in his exhausted state, he collapsed onto Ima's bed by mistake. Gary realized his mistake one second later when his impact jolted Ima awake, she saw she wasn't alone in the bed anymore, and her fist propelled him all the way back into the bathroom. He spent the rest of the night sleeping upside-down in the shower.

Klink and Schultz followed them to the restaurant, but it wasn't one where you could seat yourself. They were able however to request a table near the entrance. That way, they could watch for when Ima and Gary left and immediately follow them again. After waiting for hours, not knowing their quarry was doing hard time in the kitchen, they assumed Ima and Gary got wise to them and sneaked out through the restroom window. They tried to follow, but portly Schultz got stuck in the window, and Klink spent the next two hours trying to pull him out. By the time he did, Ima and Gary's incarceration was over, and they managed to scare every customer who needed the men's room right out of the restaurant. The manager exploded like an atom bomb, and Klink and Schultz spent the rest of the night cleaning out the grease traps in the stoves and ovens, under penalty of trusini.

The next morning, Ima and Gary made several telephone calls and found out which second-hand clothing store the Good Will shipment from America was being sent to. They hailed a cab outside the hotel to take them there, and again Gary brought the package along for safekeeping. Klink and Schultz, having finally escaped from the restaurant, returned to the hotel just as Ima and Gary caught the cab. They planned to follow them to the store with freshly loaded tranquilizer guns and captured them and the mysterious package there, except that Klink tried to commandeer a private car on the pretense that he and Schultz were plain-clothes policemen trailing two suspected international smugglers. Not only did the car's owner not believe him, but he and his three passengers all turned out to be ex-wrestling champs on their way to an exhibition match, and they decided to have some sparring practice with Klink and Schultz before leaving. The two spies had to abandon their pursuit of Ima and Gary in favor of a quick trip to the hospital.

The third spy, whoever _he_ was, had been unable to follow any of them to the hotel yesterday. He had been forced to duck inside a store to avoid being seen, and got into a long argument with the store owner about trying to close up five minutes earlier than the hours posted on the window, just because business was slow that day. By the time the argument was over, the people he was tailing had disappeared, and it was five minutes _after_ the posted closing time, so he started _another_ argument with the store owner about making his assistant work unpaid overtime. After searching all night, he finally found the hotel just as Klink and Schultz were leaving in an ambulance, and was going to hail a cab to follow them, but he was delayed and the ambulance got away when he had to pay for a jaywalking ticket.  
Ima and Gary arrived at the store. They were in luck that the owner spoke very good English, and they asked if they could look through the shipment.

"Are you outta your minds!? You want to search through a pile of donated clothes for a notepad!?"

"It's very important!" Gary exclaimed. "It . . . uh, contains our boss' programming notes!"

"What kind of an idiot would come all the way across the Atlantic to look for a lost notepad?" the owner demanded.

Ima pointed at Gary. "He would."

"What!?" Gary exclaimed.

"You expect _me_ to be the idiot!?" Ima demanded.

"I think you both are!" the owner retorted. But she reluctantly agreed, just because she had too much work to argue about it anymore, and Ima and Gary dived into the numerous piles of clothes in the storeroom and sifted madly through them. Hours later, they were forced to give up, having found no trace of the communicorder anywhere. They did, however, find 49 gum wrappers, 21 used tissues, nine rubber bands, eight marbles, four feet one inches of string, two dead flies, and a half-eaten chocolate bar with a tapeworm living inside it. "I guess the communicorder was never sent here," Ima sighed.

"What was that?" the owner asked, having returned to the storeroom without their noticing.

"Uh, we were just saying it looks like the thing we lost was never sent here."

"Either that, or it's in the collection of clothes we just sent to the mountains."

"What!?" Ima and Gary both shouted in unison.

"Why didn't you tell us some of these clothes had already been shipped out!?" cried Gary.

"You didn't ask. They were shipped to a small town called Doesn't-Matterhorn."

"Doesn't-Matterhorn?" Ima repeated.

"It's in the mountains. Not many people know about it, and those who do don't give a damn that it is."

Ima groaned loudly, and she and Gary left. It was well into the afternoon by then, but as luck would have it, they spotted a car rental place. "We'll have to rent a car if we're going to this town," said Gary. "A _cheap_ car."

As it turned out, even with their limited funds, they were able to afford the best and newest car the rental place had to offer: a sturdy, reliable 1984 Plymouth with only 479,812.7 miles on it. Ima and Gary got in and started it up. Three false starts and six backfires later, they were on their way. Unknown to them, not far behind them were Klink and Schultz, fresh out of the hospital and in hot pursuit in a 1971 Harley Davidson. The third spy followed behind them on a second-hand Schwinn.

Two hours later, Ima and Gary were speeding and bumping along the dusty mountain road with a thousand-foot cliff on one side and a two-thousand-foot mountain side on the other. Ima skillfully kept the auto on the road through every hairpin turn while Gary covered his eyes and shook like a leaf in a hurricane.

"Y-y-you've been taking d-driving lessons f-from Jerry again, h-haven't you!?" he stammered.

"The ride wouldn't be so dicey if you weren't shaking so hard! You're throwing the car off-balance!"

"Y-y-you try b-being calm when you're between a r-r-rock a-and a hard d-d-drop!"

"Calm down! I know what I'm doing!"

Just then, Gary happened to glance through his fingers into the rear-view mirror. "You suppose th-those two guys in the m-m-motorcycle know what _they're_ doing!?"

Klink and Schultz, the two guys in the motorcycle, _thought_ they knew what they were doing. That is, Klink thought they were finally about to gain the upper hand against Ima and Gary, while Schultz thought he was going to faint.

"Please, Herr Klink!" he begged. "I cannot drive this fast on a road like this!"

"Schultz, don't you dare slow down now! I'm not going to lose that package again if it's the last thing I do!"

"It may _be_ the last thing you do!" Schultz yelped as he barely navigated through the latest sharp turn. "It's no good! I'll never keep up with them all the way to the next town!"

"You won't have to! I'm putting an end to this ridiculous chase right now!" Klink reached into his jacket and pulled out an old-style Luger. "Hold her steady! I'm going to shoot out their tire! Once they've stopped, we liquidate them, grab the package, and mission accomplished!"

Klink took careful aim - or _tried_ to. "I said _steady_, Schultz! _Steady!_"

"The cycle _is_ steady, it's the _road_ that won't hold still!"

Gary peeked through his fingers at the rear-view mirror again. "Ima, i-is it m-my imagination, or is that g-g-guy in the cycle p-p-pointing a gun at us!?"

"A gun!? That's ridiculous, nobody's want to shoot _us_!"

By some miracle, the first shot Klink got off was a direct hit on one of the car's rear tires. It exploded into shredded rubber, causing Ima to immediately lose control and skid toward the cliff edge.

"Then again," she said with fake calm, "I could be wrong."

"MOOOOOOOMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEE!" Gary screamed as the car skidded over the cliff and fell off into space.

Now this is what I call a cliff-hanger! HAHAHAHAHA-(POW!)

"Hunh," muttered Schultz, "jolly joker..."

**The clerk at the Empty Arms Hotel (and what happened to his behind) is copyright to Gaylord Productions, with thanks to Roy Clark for bringing him to life. Klink and Schultz are copyright to Bing Crosby Productions, with thanks to Werner Klemperer and John Banner for bringing them to life. Ima, Gary, and almost all the other incidental characters in this chapter are copyright to me, and so far haven't been brought to life by anybody I know. Except for the third, as-yet unnamed spy, and that would be telling...**


	6. A Bicycle Built for Two

**Chapter 5**  
**A Bicycle Built for Two, or**  
**Tandem Acts of Violence**

Rupert, Fred, and Digger materialized in the heart of downtown Houston... right in the path of an oncoming truck. As Rupert and Fred screamed like a pair of schoolgirls, Rupert acted purely on reflex and jabbed a large red button innocuously placed on his bicycle's handlebars.

Below each of the two rear baskets was what looked like an exhaust pipe not something you often find on a ten-speed bike. What happens even less often is for said exhaust pipes to suddenly have powerful blue flames shooting out of them, but that's exactly what happened with Rupert's bike, and the resulting rocket boost sent him, Fred, and Digger hurtling out of the path of the oncoming truck...

...and right through the picture window of an antique china shop. The violent destruction of thousands and millions of dollars in glassware, porcelain dishes and cups, Waterford crystal, and silver flatware caused the store owner to scream bloody murder and then suffer a fatal heart attack.

Rupert and Fred hurried over to the old lady on the floor and felt for her pulse. When nothing registered, Fred shrieked, "What do we do!?"

Rupert rapidly scanned the area, then snapped, "There's a pair of rubber gloves in the first aid kit! Go get 'em!"

Fred hurried back to the bike, tore open the first aid kit glued to the support bar next to the water bottle holder, grabbed the rubber gloves and raced back to Rupert, who had already grabbed two items from a back shelf of cheaper items near the store owner's counter. Rupert quickly put on the gloves and then wrapped one of the woman's lifeless hands around the handle of a long butter knife. He then poised her hand, with the knife blade pointed down, directly over one slot of a plugged-in toaster.

"Clear!" he barked.

He thrust the knife blade directly into the toaster, sending a violent electric shock through the woman's body.

After a few moments in which she remained motionless, he barked, "Again!"

He again thrust the knife into the toaster, sending another electric shock into the woman.

"Again!"

He sent a third shock into the woman, and this time the woman suddenly inhaled deeply and gradually began breathing again. Her eyes fluttered open.

Rupert checked her pulse again. "Pulse steady," he declared. "Breathing normal." He leaned closer to her mouth to make sure, and then made a face and quickly pulled back. "Too many onions."

The woman's eyes slowly fluttered open and she gazed upward at Rupert and Fred. "Wha' happened?" she slurred.

"You all right, Ma'am?" asked Fred.

"I had the worst nightmare," she muttered as she slowly raised herself up. "I dreamed a couple of crazy little maniacs in a motorcycle from hell crashed into my shop and destroyed everything in sight."

Fred suddenly looked angry. "Who're you calling 'little'!?"

The woman snapped back to full consciousness, stared at Fred and Rupert in turn, and then looked around the recycling center that used to be her antique shop. She screamed bloody murder again and lost consciousness again.

Warily, Rupert felt for her pulse again, but this time, "She's still breathing, and her pulse is still normal." He stood up and added, "Let's just let her sleep it off."

He and Fred nonchalantly strolled back to the bicycle and mounted it as before, rejoining Digger, who had spent the entire time snoring undisturbed in the basket.

After riding their bike at least two miles away from the shop, Rupert, Fred, and Digger stopped in a small park. Rupert unfolded a road map of Houston, laid it out on a picnic table under a large tree, and declared, "All right team, time to find out if Myran's communicorder is here." He held up a list copied from the Good Will store back home. "I've got the name of the Good Will store it might've been sent to. We've got to search through it and fast. If my sweatpants are there, we've got to get to them before someone else buys them."

Fred was staring at a nearby snack bar and eagerly licking his lips. Despite the early morning hour, the snack bar's sign proudly advertised Texas barbecued spare ribs, and the smells and smoke coming from there were a clear indication they were being barbecued at that very moment.

"Are you listening to me, Fred!?"

Fred looked at Rupert suddenly. "Huh? Oh, sorry, I just realized I didn't have time for a decent breakfast before I got to the studio."

Totally P.O.'ed, Rupert glared at Digger and snapped, "Are _you_ listening -!"

Digger's snoring from the basket was all the answer he needed. "Never mind."

Fred looked back toward the snack bar and added, "I wonder if they do pterodactyl egg omelets!"

"B.C. is over, Fred!" retorted Rupert. "Welcome to A.D.!"

"A.D.? I thought we were in Houston."

"Both!" Rupert glanced at his list again, but this time the shop's address gave him pause. "Except . . . " He suddenly looked at the map again, scanned the street index and then the map grid, and came to the conclusion that, "Myran set us down in the wrong place! This charity shop is clear across town!"

Totally P.O.'ed again, Robert commanded, "Back on the bike, Fred! We got a long ride ahead of us!"

"Aw, c'mon, Rupert! All I had for breakfast was one cold piece of brontosaurus steak and a glass of cactus juice!"

Rupert had seen Fred's pieces of brontosaurus steak before. His dining room table had less surface area.

"You know if I don't get three full meals a day, I'll waste away to nothing!"

Rupert had several more comebacks all set to choose from, but all of them made direct references to Fred's weight, and it killed him that current political correctness forbade him from saying anything about that.

To his surprise, Digger was now awake and sniffing the air, and _he_ was eagerly licking his chops. "See?" prompted Fred, "Digger wants breakfast too!"

Rupert was getting tired of being pressured by his employees. The worst part was it was getting easier all the time. _I'm becoming a pushover in my old age!_ he thought angrily. _That'll teach me to turn thirty!_

"All right, but you're getting _takeout_!" he snapped. "_Light_ takeout! _Fast_ takeout!"

Minutes later, Rupert, Fred, and Digger were perched on their bicycle next to the snack bar, and the cook came out from the back with Fred's order, a rack of spare ribs big enough to drive a truck through. Straining under the weight, the cook staggered as he carried the tray of gigantic ribs to the bike, and with a final burst of effort, heaved the tray up onto the handlebars. The bicycle and its passengers promptly tipped over on their sides and crashed to the ground.

It was close to noon when they finally made it to John's Space, the Good Will store on the list. No, traffic was fairly light that day; it took most of the morning to put the bicycle back together, and for Fred and Digger to finish eating the ribs. And to make a quick side trip to the natural history museum to unload the bones.

John's Space was a fully-stocked second-hand store, priding itself on offering everything for the home at a discount price. The manager, Cindy Rellah, had this to say when Rupert asked to look for a mistakenly discarded "cell phone" in the clothing shipment they were due to receive from the airport that morning:

"_What_ clothing shipment!?"

"It isn't here yet?" asked Rupert.

"Oh, _something's_ here! I just have no idea what!"

She escorted them to a large room in the back, where bulk deliveries were dropped off and the staff could sort through them before putting the items on the sale shelves. Normally there would be bundles of clothes and stacks of non-clothing items in more-or-less neat piles on the floor and shelves in the receiving room, but this time the only thing in the room was a wooden crate eight feet high and four feet wide, with a large shipping label that read, "Dr. Robinson, Johnson Space Center."

"Those idiot truck drivers mixed up the deliveries!" Rellah exclaimed. "NASA's got our second-hand clothes, and we got... whatever it is _they_ wanted!"

"Won't NASA bring your clothes back?" asked Fred.

"They haven't returned my calls. And that damn trucking company says _we_ gotta pay whole new delivery charges before they'll switch our deliveries around!"

"Which means _we_ gotta go to the Space Center if we want to find my cell phone!" grumbled Rupert.

"That's government property!" replied Rellah. "They won't just let you in to dig through some old clothes!"

"In the first place, they're not even supposed to _have_ those old clothes. In the second place, why _shouldn't_ they just let me in? My tax dollars are paying for it, that makes me a shareholder!"

"Rupert's right!" Fred agreed bombastically. To Rellah, he declared, "_Our_ tax dollars pay for it too! We should be able to go in any time we like! Heck, if our money's paying for _everything_ at NASA, that includes maintenance and water and power we're not just shareholders, we're their _landlords_! And if they've got your clothes and won't give them back, then they're _stealing_ for their landlords, and we're gonna come down on them like a ton of gravel!"

Fred furiously smacked his hand hard on the wooden crate, making a loud rap. Half a second later, everyone heard two more loud raps... from _inside_ the crate.

Fred's head of steam instantly evaporated. " . . . What . . was _that_?" he stammered.

Rupert carefully sneaked up on the crate, tentatively held up his fist, hesitated a moment, and then knocked twice on the crate. He was answered with three rapid knocks from inside.

Rupert briefly looked nonplussed at Fred and Rellah, then turned back to the crate and knocked on it in the "Shave and a haircut" rhythm. He was answered with perfect timing with the "Two bits" response.

"Somebody's _in_ that crate!" shrieked Fred.

Rellah spun around toward the doorway to the main shop. "Tom! Get a crowbar, quick!"

A young man presumably Tom raced into the back room three seconds later with a crowbar. Rellah grabbed it and jammed it into the join between two sides of the crate. Rupert and Fred grabbed on with her and they all leaned on it with all their strength well, Rellah and Fred's strength. Rupert was just there... sort of -

"_Watch it!_" he growled.

After several seconds, the front side of the crate finally tore away and fell to the floor, releasing an avalanche of packing peanuts through which the crate's occupant quickly emerged from his oversized coffin.

Make that, _its_ oversized coffin. The occupant was a barrel-shaped, metal _something_ with two claws on the front of its torso flanking some kind of small control panel, above which was a small narrow grill. Instead of two legs, it had one thick leg with the texture of an accordion bellows, which ended at miniature tank treads on which it rolled out of the crate. On top, its "head" was a transparent, flattened globe with sensory instruments inside.

And the whole contraption looked suspiciously familiar to Rupert.

A light within the small grill turned on and off in sync with it saying in a flat, almost monotone voice, "It is about time. Confinement within this crate was extremely unpleasant. The packing peanuts were already beginning to fragment into micro-particles that were contaminating my circuits."

"It's a robot!" exclaimed Fred.

The robot's torso pivoted around on its "legs" to face Fred, and it replied, "Correction: I am _The_ Robot."

Rupert's jaw dropped in a mixture of recognition and disbelief. "Oh God, it _is_ the Robot," he moaned.

He suddenly thought back to the Good Will store back home, with "Mr. Tudball" and "Mrs. Wiggins." _Oh God again_, he thought, _we _didn't_ imagine it!_

The Robot's torso pivoted quickly back and forth, scanning all four people in turn. The claws suddenly telescoped out of its torso on flexible tube-like arms and it said, "Where is Dr. Robinson?"

"There's no Dr. Robinson here," Rellah replied.

_He probably got lost on his way here_, thought Rupert sarcastically.

"That does not compute. Dr. John Robinson is the senior engineer of the robotics division at Johnson Space Center."

"This isn't Johnson Space Center," Rupert told him. "You got delivered to the wrong address. _Our_ crate got sent there!" He glanced at Rellah. "Well okay, _their_ crate, but _my_ sweatpants!"

"And Myran's communicorder!" added Fred, who then further added, "OW!" when Rupert stomped on his foot.

"Why did you stomp on that young man's foot?" the Robot asked Rupert.

Rupert thought quickly. "Cockroach."

"No, sneaker!" griped Fred. _Good thing I didn't follow in Dad's footsteps and go barefoot!_ he thought.

Ignoring Fred, Rupert hesitantly asked the Robot, "Were you designed to go into space by any chance?"

"I am a prototype environmental control robot. My functions include monitoring of spacecraft environmental support systems, deep space radiation tests, maintenance and repairs in condition hazardous to human life. I am to undergo testing and final programming at the Johnson Space Center before launching to the International Space Station for a two-year trial mission. If my mission is successful, NASA will construct more robots like myself for future manned missions deeper into space."

Rupert turned to Fred and noted skeptically, "Our tax dollars at work. Making robot astronauts."

Fred commented, "It's not so far-fetched. I knew this kid in school who always wanted to make robot maids. Actually, George also talked a lot about flying cars." Fred tapped his temple in an obvious gesture to go with, "I think he was a little spacey, if you know what I mean."

"I got it!" Rupert suddenly blurted. To the Robot, he continued, "If we bring you to the Space Center, they're sure to let us in and let us have our crate back!"

"_Our_ crate!" retorted Rellah.

"Whatever!"

"You may have a point, though," she admitted. "We gotta get that shipment somehow!"

"How're we supposed to get him there?" demanded Fred. "He's much too big to fit on the bike!"

To the Robot, Rupert asked, "You run on wheels, right?"

"Affirmative."

"Just put your gear in neutral. We'll tie ropes around you and drag you there like a trailer."

"That's so crazy, it just might work!" exclaimed Fred.

"I'll buy the _first_ part of that," retorted Rellah.

Just outside the Good Will store, Rupert, Fred, and Rellah stopped in front of Rupert's seriously tricked-out bicycle. The Robot wheeled itself down a nearby loading ramp and joined them. Digger was in the basket, where'd he been sleeping the entire time.

"What kind of a crazy bike is this!?" demanded Rellah.

"This isn't just a 'crazy bike'!" retorted Rupert. "This is the Gumby-Mobile!"

"It's our mini-mobile unit," added Fred proudly, "outfitted with all the latest equipment!"

Rupert just as proudly showed it off. "Twin turbo boosters mounted on the rear wheels, and rocket elevators on the front wheels for vertical takeoff. Emergency parachutes built into the seat and the support bar for the front wheel. Just under the rear seat: Smokescreen, oil slick, compressed ink jet, tack dispenser. Omnidirectional radar built into the handlebars. On the handlebar control panel: Advanced GPS positioning, wireless data transfer, hi-def two-way video, 500 gigabytes of onboard memory. And on the main support bar: Storage for first-aid, minicam, radio earbuds, night-vision goggles, and everything else we might need for assignments all over the world."

"And what's that big cylinder?" asked Rellah, pointing into the storage compartment.

"A thermos," answered Fred. "For hot soup or cocoa, in case it's chilly."

Rupert beamed at Rellah and the Robot. "Well, what do you think?"

The Robot replied with a strange noise that sounded like an electronic mix of barely-restrained laughter and a loud raspberry.

"My sentiments exactly!" agreed Rellah. To Rupert and Fred, she added, "Are you guys totally cracked!? This thing would get James Bond laughed right out of the Secret Service!"

That got Rupert's dander up. "This 'thing' is the most sophisticated, most versatile, and most powerful vehicle you'll ever see! It'll run rings around anything James Bond can drive!"

"_And_ you can park it anywhere!" piped up Fred.

"I do not compute that this . . 'vehicle' -" The Robot interrupted himself with another brief outburst of laughter-raspberry. "- is powerful enough to tow my weight."

Rupert held up the tow rope he just plucked from somewhere in the bike and declared, "Put on this tow rope, and I'll make you eat those words!"

"That does not compute. I do not possess a mouth or a digestive system, therefore I am incapable of eating anything. Even if I did, unless you were to transcribe your words into physical writing, they would be merely sound waves, which cannot be eaten."

Rupert turned to Fred and muttered, "Great. I thought I was gonna have a few days away from Chip."

The Gumby-Mobile weaved in and out of traffic like a race car driven by a lunatic . . . a lunatic named Rupert Gumby who veered from one lane to another every three seconds.

"Why doesn't this damn GPS make up its mind!?" he shouted.

Right behind the Gumby-Mobile, the Robot had several ropes wrapped tightly around it and tethering it to the bicycle's rear support bar, and it was swerving violently across lanes in synch with the bicycle. The Robot's claw arms shot out of its torso again and waved around wildly as it shouted, "Danger, Rupert Gumby! Danger! Gumby-Mobile's present speed and sideways acceleration are exceeding its engineering tolerances!"

"Cool your circuits!" shouted Rupert. "I'm in complete control!" The bicycle suddenly listed to one side and Rupert had to struggle for balance. "Or I _would_ be if certain _other_ passengers would hold still!"

He turned his evil eye toward Fred, and did a double-take as he saw Fred was chewing on another giant rib. "I thought you ate all of those!"

"I stored a few in the bike for later!" Fred replied between chews.

The rib was as least twice as long as the bike. "Where were you storing _that_!?"

"Danger, danger!" cried the Robot. "Red light approaching!"

Rupert turned his eyes back on the road just in time to brake to a stop at the red light. The Robot's momentum carried him into a collision with the rear of the Gumby-Mobile. "Owwwww!" it groaned.

"Why didn't you put on _your_ brakes!?" griped Rupert.

"I did. My braking system was not designed to decelerate from supersonic velocities."

Rupert's "Ha-ha-ha!" was beyond sarcastic.

Fred noticed they stopped next to a limousine in the adjoining lane. He leaned over and rapped on its window, and it rolled down to reveal the face of a well-dressed executive.

Fred showed him his half-eaten rib and asked, "Do you have any Grey Poupon?"

The executive gave him a dirty look and rolled the window back up.

Overhearing the lame exchange, Rupert noted, "Must not want to be in an overused commercial."

"Couldn't cut the mustard, eh?" Fred then laughed out loud as his second lame joke.

The window rolled back down, and a giant dollop of light brown goo flew out of it and splattered all over Fred's head, shutting him up. But then he licked it and exclaimed, "He _does_ have some!"

Somehow, The Gumby-Mobile and its reluctant robotic passenger made it all the way to their destination without further incident. They parked it and unhitched the Robot, then Fred lifted Digger out of the basket, and then they, the Robot, and Rupert took five steps away from the bicycle and stood marveling at the sprawling technological complex that was NASA's Johnson Space Center.

That's when an SUV ran over the Gumby-Mobile.

They slowly turned and stared at the street-pizza that used to be their transportation. "Dammit, that's the third time this month!" shouted Fred.

"Gimme a hand!" said a disgusted Rupert. Fred put Digger on the curb and he and Rupert stepped to either side of the wreckage.

Fred hesitated before grabbing the bike to look up at the Robot and ask, "Can you give us a hand?"

"Negative. However, I can give you a claw."

"That'll do."

The Robot extended an arm, and the claw on the end of it popped off and tumbled to the ground at Fred's feet.

Digger gave off an extra-loud snore.

"Every reader's sentiments exactly," muttered Rupert.

Despite the lame attempts at humor and I mean lame even by _this_ novel's standard - they managed to carry the bicycle's remains out of the parking lot and up to a large entrance of the main building, where groups of people were continuously entering and exiting. An official at the door took one look at the Robot trundling behind Rupert and Fred and exclaimed, "What the _hell_ is that!?"

"This the hell is _your_ robot!" replied Rupert.

"That is correct," said the Robot. "I was shipped to the wrong address. Rupert Gumby and Fred Flintstone have assisted in transporting me to the correct location, and now I must report to the senior robotics engineer."

"Then you're _still_ in the wrong place. This is the Visitors' Center."

The doorman then took one look at the twisted, flattened metal at their feet and said, "And what the hell is _that_?"

"That is the vehicle that Mr. Gumby and Mr. Flintstone used to transport me here, before its . . accident."

"Don't suppose you have a repair shop here?" asked Rupert.

The doorman uttered an impatient sigh and replied, "Tell you what. All of you come inside, I'll radio for someone to come and get you straightened out."

They did so, and he did so, and soon Rupert, Fred, Digger, and the Robot were surveying the Visitors' Center, a large museum of U.S. manned and unmanned space travel, space probe and satellite technology, and display after display of the fruits of fifty-plus years of space exploration.

"Wow!" exclaimed Fred. "I wonder what Myran would think of all this?"

Rupert gave him a sarcastic look. "What do _you_ think when you see a museum full of stone knives and bear skins?" Suddenly remembering who he was asking, Rupert snapped, "No, don't answer that!"

Rupert and the Robot's attention was suddenly drawn to a man in a business suit approaching them. Fred's attention wandered away while Business Suit shook Rupert's hand and said, "You must be the gentlemen who returned our Robot. Thank you so much. Dr. Robinson's outta town until Wednesday, but we'll take care of it. And you were asking about a charity crate? We've got it here."

"Good," said Rupert. "Fred, let's get to work on- . . Fred!?"

Fred had left Digger on the floor and was hurrying toward an exhibit showing a life-size mock-up of one of the Martian rovers. There, the only person currently admiring it, a short, blonde-haired young man, turned toward the approaching Fred. By the look on his face, he recognized Fred immediately. By the way they shook hands and hugged each other so vigorously, he and Fred must have been close friends. Rupert scooped up Digger and he and the Robot went over to see what it was all about.

"Rupert!" exclaimed Fred. "I guess you're wondering what I'm doing with this guy! This is my pen-pal from Moscow!"

"'Pen-pal'?" repeated Rupert.

"Well okay, _Skyping_-pal, but who says that?"

"Fred, ees thees the man you haf told me about?" asked Fred's friend.

"The very same. This is Rupert C. Gumby, head of R. C. Gumby Productions, the hottest entertainment site on the internet!" Fred Flintstone then turned to Rupert and announced, "Rupert, this is my Russian pen-pal: Barney Ruble!"

Rupert hoped with all his heart that he wasn't hearing right. "Barney _Ruble_?"

"Da," Barney answered. "Eet ees an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Gumby."

"Fred Flintstone and Barney Ruble," stated the Robot. "My memory circuits recognize the names despite the variation on the second one, which is causing extreme stress on my logic circuits."

"Yours too?" asked Rupert.

"And thees must be Deegger," said Barney as he petted the sleeping beagle. The sleeping beagle snored with each pet.

"He likes you already, Barn!" grinned Fred. "So what brings you to America?"

Barney leaned close to everyone and whispered, "Can you all keep a seecret?"

"Affirmative," said the Robot. Rupert and Fred just nodded. Digger just snored again.

"All my life I haf vanted wery much to come to thee United States. Here I can fulfill my life-long dreem."

"What's that?" asked Rupert.

"To be a cowboy."

"Well, you picked the right state for it.

"He's been a fan of Westerns since he was five," Fred explained. "He's dreamed of seeing a real-live Western town, like Dodge City or Abilene. Or Pittsburgh."

"Fred," Barney said, "vill you help me fulfill my dreem?"

"You can count on us!"

"Okay." And Barney started counting on Fred right away. "One, two, three, four, five buttons. One, two, three -"

"It's just an expression!" Fred retorted.

"Wait a minute!" shouted Rupert. "Whaddaya mean 'us'!? We're supposed to be looking for Myran's -" He hesitated, looking at Barney. "- recorder!"

"Come on, Rupert! We can't leave Barney in the lurch!" Fred insisted. "He's all alone in this country. We're the only friends he's got here!"

"Maybe so, but finding that . . recorder is too important!"

"Look, do you really need me here anyway? The Good Will store only sent one crate here! It'll take you, what, _ten minutes_ to dig through it all by yourself!?"

Rupert glared at Fred. "When did you get so assertive all of a sudden!?"

"Since it's _my pal_ traveling halfway around the world to a strange country to live his lifelong dream, and I'm not gonna make him go it alone!"

_This_ was a side of Fred that Rupert had never seen before! Loud, stubborn, almost pushy - he was beginning to act like . . . well, like his ancestor!

"All right, fine! You want to take your pal here out West, go ahead! But keep your cell phone on so I can keep you posted on the search! And try to stay outta trouble!"

"Now you are talkeen', pardner!" exclaimed Barney. "But, vhat about Deegger?"

"He stays with me!" insisted Rupert. "Your cowboy fantasy would be too strenuous for an old dog like him."

Digger snorted loudly in his sleep.

To Digger, Rupert muttered, "No offense, fella."

Fred turned to Barney and declared, "So we're already in Texas, we shouldn't have to go too far to find a real Old West-type town."

"Not too far?" said Rupert. "Do you know how big Texas is?"

"My memory banks contain a comprehensive listing of localities in which the environment falls within the accepted parameters of the genre of 'the Old West', which I can cross-index according to distance from Houston."

Rupert gave the Robot a strange look. "Why do you have a list like that if you were built for deep space?"

"Even a deep space environmental control robot needs hobbies."

"I cannot thank you all eenough!" Barney declared. "I vill never forget thees."

"What are friends for?" asked Fred.

"They're for convincing to loan you ten bucks when you need it," Rupert replied. To Fred, he added, "Right, friend?"

"You don't pay me enough to loan you ten bucks."

Rupert scowled. "I liked you better when you were a fawning sycophant!"

Fred scowled. "What do baby deer and sick elephants have to do with our working relationship?"

"What do _I_ have to do to get you to read a book once in a while!?"

"I read lots of books!"

"Pop-up books don't count!"

"Do you alvays argue like that?" asked Barney.

"No," replied Fred. "Sometimes we throw things."

"Vell, pleese do not throw theengs at me! I haf a bad rotator cuff."

"I have a request," said the Robot.

"Vhat ees that?" asked Barney.

"May we end this chapter? It is no longer serving any relevant purpose."

_It was_ before_?_ asked Digger in his sleep.

**The names of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble - er, _Ruble_ \- are copyright to Hanna-Barbera and Warner Brothers, originally brought to life by the voices of Alan Reed and Mel Blanc. The Robot is copyright to Irwin Allen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television, originally brought to life by Bob May and the voice of Dick Tufeld. All other characters are copyright to me, originally brought to life by figments of my imagination. Grey Poupon is copyright to Kraft Foods, originally brought to life by people who didn't think yellow mustard was fancy enough.**


	7. Secret of the Fighter Jet

**Chapter 6**  
**Secret of the Fighter Jet, or**  
**Plane and Simpletons**

Jerry's motorcycle roared like a tiger as it sped her, Rhoda, and Chip down the highway to Atlantic City.

"The open road, the wind in your face, and the roar of a well-oiled engine!" Jerry shouted over the engine roar. "It doesn't get any better than this!"

"Unless we can get some pomegranates and a three-speed electric toothbrush!" Rhoda shouted back from the sidecar.

With all the patience that only a woman of her advanced years could possess, Jerry asked, "How would _they_ make things better!?"

" . . . . They just _would_!"

"Kid, when they made you, they broke the mold!"

"That was clumsy of them!"

Increasing the volume of his speaker so as to be heard above the engine noise, Chip said, "Jerry, I strongly advise you to reduce this transport's velocity!"

"Don't tell me _you're_ gettin' nervous!"

"Negative! It will merely facilitate coming to a complete stop before we encounter the multitude of other stationary vehicles ahead of us!"

Jerry braked to a stop just shy of a heavy traffic jam that appeared to stretch for at least two miles ahead of them.

"I am scanning radio frequencies utilized by local law enforcement agencies that may contain reports relevant to this section of the highway," said Chip. After several moments, he reported, "Curious. Reports use the terms 'semi' and 'jackknife', but I do not comprehend how the progress of so many vehicles could be impeded by such a small cutting tool, let alone only half of one."

"One of these days, Chip, we gotta download some slang into you," replied Jerry.

"On top of my deactivated form."

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" exclaimed Rhoda. "We couldn't deactivate you even if we wanted to! It's at least six miles to the nearest post office!"

"Let's not go off-track, kids!" warned Jerry. "Chip, do the reports say how long to clear this up?"

"Scanning." After a few more seconds of monitoring, Chip replied, "Latest estimate is a minimum of two hours to remove the obstruction."

"We can't wait that long!" Jerry declared. "Hang on to your hats, kids!"

She gunned the engine and sharply turned the bike off the highway and sped across a snow-covered field.

"I thought you said we weren't going off-track!" shouted Rhoda.

"We ain't! We're goin' off-_road_!"

Snow flew like snow out of a snowblower as the motorcycle roared across the fields. Without slowing down the tiniest bit, Jerry sped straight toward a small ravine carved out by a stream and jumped right over it, screaming "WAAAA-HOOOO!" as they flew through the air with the greatest of ease and bounced onto the other side and kept on going full throttle.

"If I were Human," said Chip at maximum volume, "I calculate a 98.3% probability that my bladder would be involuntarily emptying at this moment!"

"Is _that_ where this oil stain came from!?" shouted Rhoda.

After another few minutes of high-speed off-roading, Jerry suddenly screeched to a stop in a blizzard of flying snow in the middle of a large open field. She then pulled a map out of a small glove compartment in her seat and unfolded it.

"Looking for a drive-through massage parlor?" asked Rhoda.

"Just tryin' to get my bearings." She suddenly flashed Rhoda an irate look. "And who says I need a massage!? I'm good for hours in the saddle yet, soon as I find out which way to go!"

"Then I strongly suggest you proceed in the exact route that I am about to indicate," said Chip.

"What for?"

"To avoid contact with any of the multitude of land mines surrounding us."

After a few seconds pause, Jerry asked, "The what?"

"Land mines."

"You tellin' us we're in the middle of a minefield!?"

"Affirmative."

"That's ridiculous!" exclaimed Rhoda. "And I know all about ridiculous! You're saying that if I take something, like my pocket alligator call " She pulled it out of her coat. " and throw it out into any part of this field " She tossed it high into the air. " that it's going to explode a mine?" It hit the ground a few dozen feet away and exploded a mine, showering them with dirt and snow.

"Affirmative."

"Then, maybe you've got something there."

"Ooo-kay!" said Jerry. "I take it, Chip, you've scanned where all the mines are?" She gunned the cycle's motor. "You gimme directions, I'll do the rest!"

"Proceed 47 degrees north for 3.8 meters, then stand by for further directions."

Jerry gave him a look.

"Turn left."

Jerry did, moving slowly in that direction for a short distance.

"Turn right."

Jerry turned right and slowly went forward another short distance. "If this were any other time, it'd be embarrassing!" she groaned. "I'm drivin' like a little old lady!"

"I want to live to _be_ a little old lady!" blurted Rhoda.

"Turn slightly left. In this direction, you will be able to move safely for 8 feet, 3 inches."

Jerry turned slightly left and slowly pulled forward.

"Are you sure we're not going to hit any mines!?" cried Rhoda.

"Your heightened anxiety is unwarranted, Rhoda," replied Chip in an infuriatingly calm voice. "I have scanned the location of every mine within a radius of 50 meters with an uncertainty of 2 millimeters, and an uncertainty of 8 millimeters at greater distances out to the perimeter of the minefield. Provided my directions are followed precisely, we will not detonate any of the mines."

Suddenly, the ground beneath the motorcycle opened up into a large square shape that dropped steadily downwards into what turned out to be a large metal shaft.

"Apparently, I should have also scanned for hidden elevators."

"I hope this doesn't go down too far," worried Rhoda. "I get nosebleeds easily."

"You know, it's crazy enough there bein' a minefield in the middle of New Jersey!" exclaimed Jerry. "Will _somebody_ tell me what an elevator's doin' in the middle of the same field!? And how in heck are we gonna get back up again!?"

"If I still had my alligator call," said Rhoda, "it wouldn't take much to adjust it so I could summon a flock of Komodo dragons to fly here from Long Island and lift us out of this shaft. Of course, there'd be the risk that they'd fly us all the way back to their caves under the Brooklyn Bridge and feed us to the nuclear reactor that powers the giant drill they're using to reach their cousins at the center of the Earth."

". . . Or," replied Jerry, "we could follow this tunnel and see if there's another way out."

The elevator had come to a stop on the floor of a long, spacious, but empty metal corridor. Jerry revved her engine and took off down the corridor. "Okay Chip, this time scan for _anything_ that might help us. Another elevator, or the controls for _that_ one, doors, telephones -"

"Human life forms?" suggested Chip.

"Even better!"

"Turn right at the next doorway."

The next doorway turned out to be only two feet ahead. Jerry's tires screeched loud enough to wake snakes as she turned on a dime and barely made it through the doorway without sideswiping the walls or throwing Rhoda and Chip out of the sidecar. Almost immediately, she screeched to a stop when the doorway turned out to lead into complete darkness.

"So where're these humans you picked up?" Jerry demanded.

Multiple bright lights suddenly came on to reveal an artificial cavern cut in half by a gigantic curtain. Within seconds, the curtain parted to reveal a huge underground hanger full of electronic equipment and dominated by a huge jet plane that, strangely, was a bright orange all over with a giant "01" painted on the side just below the cockpit. Standing over near a light switch was a blonde-haired man dressed in greasy coveralls and holding a blowtorch. A second man with dirty coveralls but dark hair was tinkering underneath the plane. The blonde man approached the visitors and greeted them warmly in a Southern accent, "What the hell're you doin' here!? Don't ya know this is a restricted area!?"

"No we didn't!" retorted Jerry. "If this is restricted, how come there're no signs up top _sayin'_ this is restricted? Not to mention no warnings about the minefield that could a blown us to Kingdom Come!"

He turned to the dark-haired man and shouted, "Luke! Did you forget to put out the signs again!?"

"Me!? It was yer turn today, Bo!"

"Fascinating," said Chip. "My databanks contain a comprehensive list of the current upper limits of technological development of Earth s civilization. So far, I detect seven systems in this aircraft that surpass those limits by the equivalent of at least twenty Earth-years of statistically-averaged development."

". . . . Huh?" asked Bo.

Rhoda answered, "I think he said the trains in Malaysia changed over to their holiday schedule early this year. Guess I ll have to reschedule my folk singing tour."

". . . . Huh?" asked Luke.

Jerry answered, "That airplane's way ahead of its time."

Luke reluctantly replied, "All we can tell ya is it's an experimental model fer the Air Force."

"Why is it orange?"

"Well," said Bo, "we just painted it that way until it s ready fer the Air Force to try out. See, me an' my brother here had a car painted that color once, down in Georgia."

"Used to have a Confederate flag painted on the roof too," added Luke, "until all the anti-defamation leagues got their danders up."

This began to sound strangely familiar to Jerry. She leaned slowly toward Rhoda and whispered, "Rhoda, are you thinking what I m thinking?"

"I think so, Jerry, but who do we know who's tall enough to wear the giraffe suit?"

Jerry had no answer for that.

"Look, ladies," insisted Luke, "ya've already seen too much as it is. You gotta get outta here and let us get back to work." He crawled back underneath the plane and grumbled, "Specially with how long _this_ is gonna take ta fix!"

"If you are referring to the external pressure sensor linked to the port aileron's motivator," said Chip, "a simple recalibration of the tertiary parallel circuit's resonance frequency to the input power frequency from the main generator will restore the sensor to optimal function."

". . . . First of all, will ya _stop_ peekin' inside the plane, however yer doin it!" retorted Bo.

"And second," retorted Luke, ". . . that ought'a work!"

"Unfortunately, the calibration requires the use of a sonodynamic probe and a variable-frequency microlaser, neither of which has been developed on this planet as of yet."

"Oh, pish-tosh!" snapped Jerry. "All you need is a small soldering iron, a penknife, and a pair a tweezers!"

Luke stared at Jerry. "You know about electronics and power systems!?"

"How do you think I keep my bike running so good?"

Hesitantly, Bo said, "Well, uh, we really shouldn't let y all near this plane, it bein' top secret an all . . . but let's see if we can find that stuff."

Within three minutes, Bo, Luke, Jerry, and Chip found the necessary equipment from around the laboratory. Within another ten minutes after that, they had the sensor in perfect working order.

"Hoo-wee!" exclaimed Luke. "It never worked better!"

"And that was th' last thing!" Bo added. "This fighter jet s all set for the Air Force to try out!"

"When are they comin'?" asked Jerry. "Or do you have to bring it to them? Or is that top secret too?"

"Top secret too," said Bo.

"Too bad, that's one fine lookin' machine. You do a lot a work on experimental aircraft?"

"Yep," replied Luke, "on account of our years a racin' experience, soupin' up engines, thinkin' on the fly, we get assigned a lot a hazardous test bed work."

"I had a feeling 'hazard' would be in there somewhere." Jerry picked up her bike helmet. "Well, I'm glad we could help out, but we gotta get goin'. If you could show us the way out..."

"Oh, right!" said Bo. "We can deactivate all th' mines from down here, then you can just take th' same elevator out ya came in."

"Perfect. Rhoda, Chip, let's mount up . . . Rhoda? Where d ya go?"

Rhoda was sitting in the jet's cockpit admiring all the fancy controls. "Wow! I bet this plane could pull enough gees in a turn to squash you flatter than sauerkraut pancakes!" She grabbed the joystick and started playing Top Gun. "Eat my contrails, flyboys! WHOOSH!"

"Rhoda! Get outta there!" shouted Jerry.

"That's off limits ta everybody!" shouted Luke. "Even _we_ ain't allowed in th' cockpit without authorization in triplicate!"

"If you break anything in there," added Jerry, "we'll be paying for it the next five hundred years!"

"Seven hundred sixteen years, nine months, twenty-seven days, five hours, forty-one minutes," corrected Chip, "based upon our present combined salaries-"

"Who's counting!? snapped Jerry."

Suddenly the cockpit hatch closed, trapping Rhoda inside. At the same time, the jet s engines fired up.

"Rhoda!" shouted Jerry. "What'd you do!?"

"I think I've just started the plane," suggested Rhoda, her voice muffled through the canopy. "How do I stop it?"

Her question came six milliseconds too late. The plane started taxiing across the garage. At the same time, large twin hangar-type doors opened in the wall of the garage facing the plane, leading to a wide ramp. The engines suddenly opened up full throttle, blowing Jerry, Chip, Bo, and Luke backwards into the opposite wall, knocking several shelves of tools off the wall down around them as the jet rocketed toward the doors before they had a chance to fully open. The fuselage cleared the opening easily, but the wings didn't. Instead, they sliced through the doors on both sides, and the impact knocked more tool-laden shelves off all the other walls. Even more were knocked off when the plane s rapid, uncontrolled ascent of the ramp and exit through the doors at the top to the outside set off several land mines. By the time the fighter jet was flying off into the sky with its unwilling and un-witted passenger, half the secret underground hangar was a total shambles, and no sentient being remaining inside was in enough of a state of consciousness to complain about it.

Bo and Luke were the first to wake up amidst piles and piles of scattered tools. "Hoo-wee!" exclaimed Luke. "You all right, Bo?"

Bo rubbed his head. "Ah feel like I just jumped our car over th' river without bucklin' mah seat belt!"

The first thing they did was survey the hangar with cool professionalism. "OH MAH LORD!" yelled Bo. "Look what that crazy lady did ta this place!"

"Where's that _other_ crazy lady!?" shouted Luke.

"Who're ya callin' crazy?" groaned a slurred voice behind them.

Luke suddenly turned to see Jerry's eyes flutter open and a slight moan escape her lips. "Bo, quick! Get the first aid kit!" he shouted.

"I don't need no first aid kit, Sonny!" retorted Jerry, her voice more forceful and her eyes fully open as she pushed herself to her feet. "I've taken worse spills at the roller derby! She looked around what remained of the hangar and then at the open ramp. "Oh Rhoda, you crazy kid! Can't you stay in the real world for more than two minutes at a time!?"

"We've gotta get that plane back, or our CO'll have our heads!" exclaimed Bo.

"It'll be even worse if that plane is taken by a foreign government!" added Luke. "Its secrets could spell big trouble fer our country!"

Jerry's foot nudged something solid and as a reflex she looked down, and spied a familiar object. "Chip! Chip, you okay!?" She picked him up off the floor, but the little robot made no response. His electronic button eyes were as dark as the rest of the room. "The blast must'a knocked him offline!" She pried open a small access panel on Chip's back to expose a bank of alien circuitry. "I don't see any damage here. Not that I'd really know if it was damaged this tech's way beyond me. Myran said he has self-repair systems, but I'm guessin' he needs to be on for them to work. So how do I turn him back on?"

"Can't you just . . I don't know, flip his on switch?" asked Bo.

"I don't know if he has one."

Luke pulled a pair of thick cables out of the mess and said, "How about jumper cables? We can hook him up to the jeep!"

"The hell you will," was Chip's emotionless reply as his eyes lit back up.

"Welcome back to the land of the living!" said Jerry. "So to speak. How much do you remember?"

"A compilation of the events recorded in my memory banks would require much more than the remainder of your lifespan to disclose."

" . . . Okay, how much do you remember _after_ the fighter jet took off and _before_ you went offline?"

"In chronological order, the pressure of the engine exhaust propelled me 8.373 meters into a wall, the impact into the same wall triggered a reset protocol to minimize deceleration-induced errors in my operating code, and I spent the remaining 0.219 seconds before temporary shutdown trying to calculate the optimal levels of voltage and direct current that would make Rhoda think twice before repeating the actions that led to this list of events."

Luke stared blankly. " . . . . What'd he say?"

"Never mind, Luke!" snapped Bo. "We gotta get after that plane!"

"How're we gonna to find it?" demanded Jerry. "Rhoda and your plane could be a thousand miles away by now!"

"No sweat, Ma'am," said Luke. "That plane's got a homin' device built in. We can track it by satellite with that scanner over there." He pointed to a large computer screen built into an adjoining wall above a large control board, and rushed over to it. However, when he tried to activate it, nothing happened. He tried a number of other controls and still nothing happened. "Oh, shoot! Don't tell me this thing's broken! We'll never be able to track th' plane without it!"

He motioned Bo to help him, and they removed a panel on the side of the control board and tinkered inside it for several seconds. "I don' get it!" exclaimed Bo. "Everythin's connected right, nothin's broken, it should be workin' jus' fine! What's wrong with it!?"

"The main cord is disconnected from the power outlet," said Chip.

Bo and Luke slowly pulled their heads out of the panel, stared at Chip for a second, and then stared at the floor, where they saw panel had indeed come unplugged.

"Must've gotten yanked out during the hurricane in here," guessed Jerry.

"I'll get it," said Luke. He grabbed the cord and plugged it back into the outlet while Bo stayed with the panel.

120 volts of electricity, plus several damaged circuits undetected by their tinkering, equaled the short circuit of the decade. Luke, Jerry, and Chip ran for cover as Bo and the control panel turned into the world's first underground fireworks display, rocketing him straight away from the panel at supersonic speed into a pile of empty boxes.

"Is he all right!?" exclaimed Jerry.

"He'll be fine," Luke replied calmly. "He always does his own stunts."

Bo confirmed Luke's diagnosis by climbing out of the boxes, seemingly none the worse for wear. "Yeah, and I get Hazard pay for doin' 'em."

"Surprise, surprise," Jerry muttered.

Everyone surveyed what was left of the control panel and the scanner screen. Chip said, "I calculate a 2.994% probability of successfully using this apparatus to locate your aircraft."

"Ain't that what you said about the audio mixer yesterday?" asked Jerry.

"Negative. I said there was a 2.451% probability of successfully using that apparatus."

"So the odds are better this time! Bo, Luke, let's get to work!"

"There is another option, a commercial airport 34.9 kilometers from this location. I could attempt to interface with the radar network used for tracking commercial aircraft, and correlate the data to isolate the present location of your aircraft."

"_If_ you can get through the network's security firewalls, and _if_ you can pick out _one_ plane among thousands in the air right now," Jerry pointed out. "I still say we can get this thing working again!"

"Besides, that plane's top secret!" insisted Bo. "What if somebody at th' airport asks what yer lookin' for!?"

"We are searching for an orange aircraft. I am no expert on human psychology, military intelligence, or chromatic aesthetics, but how many humans would accept that a top-secret military vehicle would be painted that color?"

" . . . . _I_ thought it looked good," said Luke, somewhat petulantly. "All right, but I'll stay here with Jerry and try to fix the scanner."

"Wait," Jerry piped up, "if Chip's goin' to the airport, you'll need me to drive 'im."

"No need," said Bo, "we got a jeep stowed away in the back room. C'mon, Chip." He picked up Chip and jogged toward a wide open entryway shrouded in darkness. Moments later, a jeep engine roared to life, and an orange jeep pulled out of the room and suddenly zoomed toward the ramp with screeching wheels. It cleared the ramp with such speed that it jumped five feet into the open air out of its own momentum. All the while, its horn blared a short verse from the song "Dixie." It finally landed with a thud a hundred feet distant and roared off into the night.

"Wonder if I can get a ringtone like that for my bike horn?" wondered Jerry.

**The characters of Bo and Luke are copyright to Warner Bros. Television, originally brought to life by John Schneider and Tom Wopat. Jerry, Rhoda, and Chip are copyright to me. If they ever get brought to life by anyone, run for the hills.**


	8. The Crime of the Century

**Chapter 7**  
**The Crime of the Century, or**  
**Clown and Out**

From the moment Phil Harmonik, Ab Normal, and Feathers started on their drive to Brooklyn, Phil found his grasp on inner peace and calm put to the test. No longer having to compete with a crowd of overly-talkative people with too much bottled negativity of their own, Feathers was living up to the reputation of parrots by talking all the time. And just about everything she said was either a complaint about some flawed aspect of humans or human society, a fit of road rage against some other driver or pedestrian on the road with them, or a snide remark about something Ab said.

Ab was also proving to be very talkative, and just about everything she said was . . . actually, it was almost impossible to predict what she was going to say from sentence to sentence. She seemed unable to focus on any one subject for more than a few seconds at a time, and she had a singular knack for twisting any subject beyond all rationality. People often spoke of the "stream of consciousness" - Ab's consciousness was a winding river full of rapids.

Phil remembered what his teachers told him: He would be tested many times along his journey to achieve complete inner peace and understanding, and each test would leave him stronger and wiser, and one step closer to enlightenment. This was simply another such test, and he resolved that he wouldn't fail this one either.

"Hey, pencil-neck!" shouted Feathers. "What's the matter, one lane not enough for you!?" Sarcasm pouring from her voice as she added, "Oh, of _course_! It's _another_ jackass yakking on his cell phone! Can't just wait 'til he gets to the office to order lunch, it might not get there until... ooh, maybe _noon_!"

"It depends on where he's ordering lunch to go to, doesn't it?" Ab retorted. "I mean, if he's ordering it to go to Brooklyn like Rupert told us, it'll get there about the same time as him, but if he's ordering it to go to overseas, that'll take longer!"

" . . . _What!?_"

"Then again, if it's going over-B's instead of over-C's, that's even longer 'cause the lunch'll have to study more. And lunch'll probably have to skip the movie tonight if it wants enough study time to get A's, which is too bad because I really want to see that movie when we get back. Did you ever get A's in school, Feathers?"

"Parrots don't go to school!"

"Well, that's terrible! How else are you going to learn about the world!?"

"Simple! I watch how human beings behave and how they run the world, and then I do everything opposite to what they do! Like that moron in the blue SUV! Watching her, now I know not to leave my turn signal going eight _miles_ after changing lanes!"

His sixth sense told Phil that at least one of his teachers was laughing at him right now.

His visual sense and the dashboard told him his engine was running low on oil. "I'm sorry to interrupt you," he said, silently hoping his teachers would forgive his lie, "but I need to turn off at the next exit and find a garage."

Feathers looked at the dashboard. "Just to change your oil? Why not just buy a quart at a quick mart and change it yourself?"

"Even if I knew how, I'm afraid I might spill some oil and contaminate the ground and water even more than it already is. The earth's well-being isn't worth the risk just to save a little money on a garage bill."

"Hey, don't get me wrong, my ancestors came from the Amazon; I'm all for protecting the environment as much as anyone! But a 'little' money at the garage? That's a laugh! Soon as these crooks get under your hood, your little oil change'll turn into rusted valves and blown spark plugs and cracked tubing and a complete engine overhaul, and you'll end up paying a wing and a leg and your firstborn chick for work you didn't even need!"

"I didn't know you could use wings as money," mused Ab. "So, when I go out and buy chicken wings, I'm really just getting my money exchanged?"

Instead of berating Ab for her latest nonsensical train of thought, Feathers instead muttered angrily, "I thought we agreed you weren't going to talk anymore about how often you eat wings!"

It was at this point that Phil reached an exit off-ramp, and as luck would have it, there was a full-service garage already in sight. Mercifully, Ab and Feathers paused their ranting and rambling long enough for Phil to turn in and pull up to the garage. They were the only car there. In fact, there was no sign of any other life at the garage.

Phil, Ab, and Feathers got out of their car and looked around. "Strangely quiet," noted Phil. "Even if everyone is inside, we should be hearing some kind of activity."

"Maybe it's everyone's day off," replied Ab.

"What, and leave the doors open?" replied Feathers, noting the garage's insides were fully visible.

"Oh, there's someone," said Phil, seeing a mechanic emerge from a back room in the garage and walk toward them. He was dressed in oily coveralls on top of warm clothing against the winter chill, with a hat and scarf largely covering his face. Obviously he'd spent most of the morning working outside.

As Phil lead his party inside to meet him halfway, Feathers landed on Phil's shoulder and whispered in his ear, "Just remember what I said, you can't trust these grease monkeys! Turn your backs on 'em for one second, and they'll take your whole car apart and put it back together again and charge you twice what you paid for it!"

Phil would have chided her cynicism, but he was momentarily distracted by the fact that the mechanic's hat and scarf hid much of his face even up close, but the little bit he could see looked extremely pale. He hoped the mechanic wasn't sick or suffering frostbite.

The mechanic's voice sounded more gruff than sick when he asked, "Whadda you folks need?"

"My engine needs the oil changed," answered Phil. "And I'm sorry if I sound impatient, but we really are pressed for time. Could you please see to it right away?"

"Just an oil change - okay, buddy. C'mon inside and I'll run up your bill."

As the mechanic led them through a door into the store adjoining the garage, Feathers whispered to Phil, "I bet he'll be running a marathon on the cash register by the time he's done with our bill."

"You must try to have more faith in humanity, Feathers," Phil whispered back. "And anyway, I'm fully aware of how much greed some people let into their souls, and I know how to watch for it. There are always certain signs to look for."

He and Feathers suddenly stopped - and Ab walked right into their backs while she was too distracted wondering what kind of shoes you needed to wear while running up the side of a bill - when they noticed a man and a woman tied up and gagged and scared out of their wits on the floor behind the cash register counter. A split second later, four other men jumped out from behind different display racks pointing large, weird-looking guns at the visitors. They were dressed all in black, complete with black burglar masks, except that each had a different word emblazoned on their shirts: "Gag", "Jape", "Lark", and "Prank".

"Signs like these, you mean?" retorted Feathers.

Without warning, the men fired their guns point-blank at Phil and Ab. Before they knew what was happening - although in Ab's case, that could cover a pretty good length of time - they found themselves tightly wrapped up from their necks to their ankles in hundreds and hundreds of feet of strong, sticky, multi-colored ropes shooting out of the weird guns like super-fast spaghetti makers.

"Silly string!?" exclaimed Feathers, who instinctively jumped up and hovered a few inches off Phil's shoulder to avoid the sticky mesh. "What kind of a stick-up is this!?"

"This isn't a stick-up," replied the mechanic. His gruff voice suddenly changed to a crazy one for, "It's a _wrap_-up! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The mechanic, suddenly much more animated and laughing like a maniac, pulled off his hat and scarf. Phil's assumption was incorrect: the mechanic wasn't pale, he was wearing white clown makeup, complete with extra-wide red lips and eyeliner, topped off with a head of shockingly green hair. He also ripped off his coveralls and winter clothes to reveal a three-piece suit made of an equally shocking purple coat and pants, green vest, and black cravat.

"And who's _this_ joker!?" exclaimed Feathers.

"Precisely! The Joker, at your service! But then, what else would I be at a _service station_!?" He laughed his head off again at his own joke. His henchmen all started laughing with him in unison as he reached up to shake Feather's wing before she could react. Her hesitation earned her at least two hundred volts from the Joker's hand buzzer, catapulting her right out of the air to crash-land into a stack of spill-proof mugs.

"How do you want me, rare, medium, or well-done?" she moaned.

"Oh my God, you _are_ the Joker!" cried Ab.

"In person, my dear!"

Ab's eyes suddenly narrowed, and she peered more closely at the Joker's face. "I didn't know you had a mustache."

The Joker did a double-take, then quickly felt around his upper lip. "Hm, must be five o'clock shadow."

"It's half past nine," Ab protested.

"So my watch stopped - who cares!?"

"If you plan to rob us as well as this garage, you'll be disappointed," said Phil. "I have long since rejected petty concerns of wealth and status, and carry only as much money as I need on a day-to-day basis."

The Joker looked outraged. "This garage!? _I_, the Clown Prince of Crime, engage in petty theft!? Of all the nerve! I steal only the best - the biggest - the richest! Plunder worthy of the greatest criminal genius in the world!" He pulled a piece of paper out of his suit. "Plunder such as this!"

The paper was a printout of a photo of a large, green crystal or gemstone. "Is that a meditation stone?" asked Phil. "I'll admit, it would be valuable if it's genuine, but only to other spiritualists."

Irritated, the Joker retorted, "That, my boneheaded hippie, is the world famous Giggling Garnet, the largest garnet gemstone in the world, currently on display at the local branch of Gotham City Jewel Exports. But if you look closely, you can see what truly makes it unique. You see the streaks of yellow embedded in the stone?"

Phil and Ab looked closely at the printout. They did indeed see the yellow imperfections, but it was the pattern they appeared to make that caught their attention.

"It looks a little like a face," noted Phil.

"Yeah, a happy face!" added Ab. "There's the eyes, and a little button nose, and a great big happy mouth."

"Exactly, a _laughing_ mouth!" the Joker crowed. "What could be more apropos for me, the Joker, to possess the one priceless gem in the world that can laugh along with him!?"

"Well, if that's what you're after, what're you doing here?" demanded Feathers. "Your getaway car have a flat tire?"

Like flipping a switch, the Joker suddenly turned sour again. "Hunh! The local police impounded it! A public eyesore, they said! _My_ Joker-Mobile, an eyesore!? Outrageous!"

His Joker-Mobile was at that moment sitting in a police impound lot. It was a restored 1959 Edsel painted in Day-Glo rainbow colors, with twin, squeeze-style bicycle horns in place of the rear-view mirrors, a giant red nose over the front grill, pipe organ tubes sticking straight up out the trunk and rigged up as fireworks launchers, and a giant arrow sticking through the roof. . . . . Sounds fine to me, I don't know what the police were complaining about.

His switch went back to gleeful. "But now that you're here, our transportation problem is solved!" He turned to two of his men. "Jape, Prank, go out and bring their car into the garage." To the other two, "Gag, Lark, take our new guests along and join them! I'll bring the bird!"

"Not with _that_ hand, you won't!" Feathers snapped. "I'm already cooked!"

Joker grabbed her with his non-electrified hand, muttering, "Hunh! Who says poultry's best when it's fresh?"

Phil's car was in the garage, and the garage doors were now closed so they could have some heat inside. Phil and Ab were now untied, but Gag and Lark had them covered with their silly string guns while the Joker danced around the car, giggling and gesturing wildly. "Oh yes," he grinned, "this will do nicely!"

"You can't use our car to rob a jewelry store!" exclaimed Ab.

"Oh no? Just watch me!" An inner door opened, and the Joker exclaimed, "Ah, there it is! The keystone of my crowning caper!"

Jape and Prank rejoined their cronies, carrying between them . . a giant _jack-in-the-box_!? "What's _this_ for?" asked Phil, nonplussed.

"It's quite simple," replied the Joker. "We're going to install this jack-in-the-box into your car's engine, and then drive it through the front window of the jewelry store. Once inside, the jack-in-the-box will pop, and spray knockout gas throughout the store. We grab the Giggling Garnet - plus a few of the more expensive diamonds, just for extras - and then speed clean away before anyone awakes!"

"Holy beddie-bye!" exclaimed Ab.

Feathers gave her a dirty look. "Did you _have_ to say that?"

"Quickly! You boys get to work!" the Joker snapped. "We need to be out of the state by tonight!"

Jape and Prank put down the giant prop and opened the car hood. They took one look inside and hesitated, their faces twisting in confusion and dismay.

"Well, what're you waiting for!?" demanded the Joker.

"Joker . ." said Prank, "I . . we don't know where to start!"

"What are you talking about!?" The Joker stomped over to join them. "It's a perfectly simple operation! You just connect the atomizer to the - to the . . ." The Joker looked at the engine and was stumped. It didn't look like the engine of his own Joker-Mobile. For that matter, it didn't look like _any_ car engine he'd seen.

"Where's the catalytic converter?" he muttered. "Well, that part's not supposed to be _there_ . . . What kind of a fuel injection system is _that_!?"

He suddenly looked up, muttering, "Wait a minute!" He turned to Phil. "Is this a hybrid!?" he demanded.

"Of course. Very fuel efficient and thus good for the environment. I'd drive an electric car, but they take too long to recharge."

"We don't know how to hook up the gas sprayer to a hybrid engine!" protested Jape.

"Good!" said Phil. "Reducing emissions was another reason I wanted one."

"Well, Mister Environment, if I can't use this car for my caper, we might as well dump it in the river, and you and your friends along with it!

"You can't do that!" exclaimed Ab. "I didn't bring my bikini!"

"I think they'll give you one, Ab," retorted Feathers, "made outta cement!"

"Oh!" Ab smiled (!?). "Well, I couldn't take your gift without giving you something in return! At least let me help you with the engine!"

Even the Joker was flummoxed. "You will? - I-I mean, yes! How very kind of you!"

"Ab!" exclaimed Phil.

"Oh, don't worry, Phil! I watch Jerry, Myran, and Homer fix things all the time at the studio. I'm sure I can figure out how to fix this."

She joined the Joker, Jape, and Prank at the open engine, studied the workings inside, and said, "Sure, that's all you need to do! Cut that hose running between this thingy and that thingy, and connect the do-hickey on the bottom of your jack-in-the-box in between. Then connect the wires from the box's whatchamacallit to the wires from the car's thingamajig."

The Joker, Jape, and Prank stared at her, then at each other. Finally the Joker snapped, "You heard the lady! Connect the . . what she said!"

Jape and Prank rushed to obey instructions. Then Ab said, "Now then, this hoozit connects to this whatsit, then unscrew the screws and connect the dots between these two thingies here." They did so - whatever they did. "Now then, this nozzle fits to the hole in the big metal thing here, and run a few more wires from whatever this is to whatever that is." Whatever that was, they did it. "And now, you just connect that last wire to the car's battery knob with the big plus sign on it." Jape did the honors.

And he, Prank, the Joker, and the jack-in-the-box they were all holding were instantly zapped with hundreds of volts of direct current. At first, they stood frozen in place, shaking violently from the electric onslaught, then several explosions went off in the jack-in-the-box, and the three men were catapulted halfway across the garage in three different directions, each one ending with a loud crash.

". . . or is it the knob with the _minus_ sign?"

"Now we're even!" Feathers crowed at the Joker.

The furious - and still smoldering - Joker dragged himself out of a pile of used tires and stomped toward Ab. "Ooh, you duplicitous dolly-bird! Think you can out-joke the Joker, eh!? Well, we'll figure out some way to use my jack-in-the-box in this car! And as for you and your flaky, feathery friends, I've got a joke for you that's absolutely to _die_ for!"

Minutes later, everyone was out back of the garage. The Joker, back to his old, maniacally grinning self, stood with his merry minions in front of a tiny clown car stuffed to the gills with crash test dummies. It engine was racing and its rear tires were spinning like mad, but a carjack under the rear axle held the wheels just above the ground, so it wasn't going anywhere for the moment.

With an insane laugh, the Joker exclaimed, "Are you both sitting comfortably!?"

From within the mashup of dummies, Ab managed to push her face into view in the windshield on the driver's side, and grunt, "I don't even know if I _am_ sitting!"

Phil's face came into view at the passenger-side window. "Even _I_ would find it hard to reach a Zen state in _this_ position!"

"Oh, you'll be reaching _something_ in a few minutes!" He referred to the set-up just behind the car: A giant boxing glove mounted on the end of an equally giant coiled spring, with a large lever connected to the giant hook holding the spring in place. "When I release the spring, the glove will be off, as it were, knocking your car off the jack and sending it speeding down this driveway! You should get up to at least a hundred miles an hour by the time you reach the end, where, as misfortune has it, you will plow head-on into a stone wall three feet thick. So I hope you're both wearing your seat belts! HAHAHAHA!"

"I was taught never to make judgments about the mental state of another," grunted Phil. "But in your case, I'd say the diagnosis is obvious!"

"Wait, where's Feathers!?" demanded Ab. "What've you done to her!?"

"Oh, I haven't forgotten her!" the Joker replied. "Just crane your necks out the window and ask yourselves this: Why did the parrot cross the road?"

"Why did the _parrot_ cross the road?" parroted Phil.

Gleefully, the Joker answered, "Because she was tied to the chicken!"

As he laughed his head off for the umpteenth time, Ab and Phil maneuvered themselves so they could look out the windows, and see that Feathers really was tied to the back of a chicken . . a life-size robot chicken that clucked mechanically and shuffled back and forth halfway down the driveway, directly in the path the car was about to take.

"This is for the birds!" she shouted. She then groaned inside and muttered, "I don't believe I just said that."

The robot uttered some loud mechanical clucks.

"Who asked you!?"

"Gentlemen!" called out the Joker. "To your positions!"

The Joker bounded to the large lever and grabbed it. His henchmen gathered around him, except for Gag, who positioned himself off the left-front side of the clown car, holding a checkered flag.

"On your marks!" shouted the Joker, getting a tighter grip on the lever. "Get set . . !"

Gag raised the flag over his head preparing to whip it down.

"_Stop, you delinquent devils!_" someone else shouted.

Joker and his goons spun around and looked up to the roof of the garage. There, they saw a grown man and a teenage boy standing and staring down defiantly. The man wore a bright blue and black suit with a bat silhouette on the chest, a dark cowl over his eyes, and forehead and a matching cape. The teenager's suit was red and gold with a letter "R" on the chest, with another matching cape, and a simpler mask over his eyes and nose.

. . ._Gee_, I wonder who _these_ guys could be?

"Let those innocent citizens go, Joker!" the man demanded.

"Batman and the Boy Wonder!" Joker exclaimed. "How did you find us so fast!?"

"Elementary, my dear Joker!" replied Batman. "When your car was impounded to the police lot, we used our portable Bat Analyzer on the engine and found minute residue from the knockout gas in the fiendish device you practiced installing!

"But without your car, we knew you'd have to get another one!" added Robin the Boy Wonder. "We also knew you must be after the Giggling Garnet! A crook with _your_ crooked sense of humor wouldn't be able to resist!"

"And between the Bat Computer's calculations and my detailed knowledge of all businesses related to automobiles in the tri-county area, we reasoned the most likely place for you to steal a car and install your jack-in-the-box!"

Robin pounded his fist in his hand. "And now, we're going to install _you_ right back into prison!"

Even from the distance, Feathers saw and overheard the whole exchange. "Is this _really_ happening?" she moaned.

To Batman and Robin, the Joker snarled, "I'm afraid you're going to be too busy for that!" Before anyone could stop him, he yanked the lever. The giant boxing glove sprang free and knocked the clown car off the jack. As the racing wheels hit the asphalt and it took off with a squeal of burning rubber, he shouted, "Flee, my felonious fiends!" to his fiends, and they ran back into the garage.

"Holy speeding ticket!" shouted Robin. "How do we stop that car!?"

Batman swiftly pulled something from his utility belt. "Hopefully, with a well-thrown Bat-a-rang, old chum!"

Batman let his bat-shaped boomerang fly, but not toward the speeding car, toward Feathers!

"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE THROWING, YOU -!"

The nasty epithet about to come next died suddenly in her throat as the Bat-a-rang sliced through the ropes holding her to the robot chicken. Instantly freed, she took off straight up just as the car reached and ran over the chicken. Unfortunately, Feathers was a fraction of a second too slow, and her talons caught on the lip between the windshield and the car's roof. With a scream, she was carried away down the second half of the driveway, still on a direct course for the stone wall.

That's when the Bat-a-rang flew around for a second pass, this time arcing under the clown car and impacting on the front axle's drive shaft just right to force it into an abrupt left turn. The car swerved off the driveway and arced away from the wall, skimming just inches away from it at its closest.

"Great work, Batman! That shot was one in a million!"

"No luck was involved, Robin, merely the correct application of force, momentum, and wind resistance."

They both heard the sound of an engine gunning to life and the squeal of tires. They looked down from the roof in time to see Phil's car rocketing out of the garage and speeding away, with the Joker and his gang aboard.

"The Joker and his gang are getting away!" exclaimed Robin.

"Yes, but we must save those innocent citizens first!"

That's when Ab finally squashed down two of the crash dummies a tiny fraction more, just enough to let her fingers reach the steering wheel. "Got it!" she cried. She then looked out and saw what was happening back at the garage. "Hey Phil, can your car drive itself!?"

"No, Ab."

"Then those nasty guys must be taking it! I'll get 'em!"

She turned the wheel hard and set the clown car on a new course, down the street to race after the Joker's gang.

"Holy two-for-one, it looks like both our problems are going in the same direction!"

"_This_ might count as a stroke of luck. To the Batmobile!"

Batman and Robin disappeared from the roof edge. Within moments, another engine roared into life and a sleek, old-fashioned looking black car with upswept curves like bat wings took off from its hiding place behind the garage and sped down the street after the other two cars.

Phil's car sped furiously through a large nearby village, blatantly ignoring traffic signs and stop lights as if they just didn't give a damn, forcing other cars and pedestrians to dodge furiously to avoid crashing. The clown car was right behind them, also blatantly ignoring traffic laws but this time because the driver was barely able to maintain control. Nevertheless, they kept pace with the getaway car and in fact were slowly creeping up on them.

Joker did a double-take as he saw them in the rear-view mirror. "Impossible! It can't be! Not only did they escape my trap, now they're coming after us!?"

Shoving dummies aside as best he could, Phil could finally see ahead of them clearly. "Ab, what are you doing!?" he demanded. "If that's the Joker and his men in my car, let them go! Leave them to the police!"

"How could the police stop them from getting away!?"

"They can set up roadblocks!"

"Well that's a fine thing! Playing with blocks while some bad guys are getting away with your car! I'll admit the alphabet blocks are really fun, but this is no time for fun! I don't even know what it emis/em time for; one of those crooks took my watch!"

All this time, Feathers had been slowly inching her way to the driver's side of the windshield, knowing full well that if her talons slipped just once, she'd fly right off the car. And at the speed they were going, she'd probably splatter all over some building or another vehicle before she could regain flight control.

She finally reached the edge of the windshield. Bracing all her weight on one talon, she very carefully let go with the other and scratched furiously on the driver-side window with the other. As soon as she go Ab's attention, she screamed, "OPEN THE WINDOW!"

"WHAT!?" Ab shouted back.

"_OPEN THE WINDOW!_"

"_WHAT!?_"

"_OPEN THE !$%?#! WINDOW!_"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU! WAIT, I'LL OPEN THE WINDOW!"

Ab rolled it down and Feathers practically threw herself inside. Then, after Ab rolled the window back up, she asked, "So like, what did you say?"

"I said you're a total idiot!"

Ab was astonished. "You went to all that trouble just to tell me the same thing you've said ever since we met!?"

Feathers screamed again as Ab, who let the car drift into the oncoming lane, suddenly swerved onto the sidewalk to avoid an oncoming truck, sideswiped a front stoop, and was subsequently propelled back into the street in the correct lane, all while turning through two whole revolutions.

"_And you drive like a maniac!_" Feathers screamed.

"_That's_ a new one!"

Joker turned angrily to his driver, Lark. "Can't you go any faster!? Those dunderheads are right behind us!"

"I got her wide open, Joker! These hybrids aren't built for speed!"

"Neither are clown cars, and look how fast _they're_ going!"

Lark returned his eyes to the road, and they suddenly grew to twice their normal size. "You think _they're_ fast!? Look who's coming!"

The Batmobile roared into view from around a corner up ahead and sped right toward them. "That shortcut worked, Batman!" crowed Robin.

"But not well enough!" replied Batman as the Joker's gang made a hard turn down a side street. Ab turned just as hard into the street, her car executing another full revolution due to a bounce off a mailbox before righting itself again, leaving a trail of flying envelopes in her wake. Batman swerved the Batmobile into the same street and got several letters plastered onto his windshield.

"Mrs. Edna Fitzwater is behind on her electric bill," Batman noted. He reached around and plucked the envelope from the windshield. "Remind me to deposit this in another mailbox as soon as possible."

"Right, Batman."

The Caped Crusaders were now right behind Ab, who was right behind the Joker, who was coming out of the side street and onto the main thoroughfare of town, leaving chaos and confusion in their wake. "Turn there!" snapped the Joker as they approached a large delivery truck slowly backing into an alley. The car turned straight toward the alley, missing the truck by inches just before it backed up enough to block off any further entry into the alley.

"Turn-Turn-TURN!" shrieked Feathers.

Ab did so, turning the other way into the oncoming lane again, and then had to turn further to avoid an oncoming minivan and ended up in another alley. The Batmobile, hot on her heels, also avoided the truck but managed to stay in its own lane and continue down the street.

With a moment's respite, Ab turned toward Feathers as best she could in the crowded car. "Turn-turn-turn! Hey, that was Credence Clearwater, wasn't it?

"No, it was The Byrds," Phil replied.

"Who the hell cares!?" shouted Feathers.

"When you love folk music as much as I do, it matters."

Phil's car sped out of the alley and onto another street. The Joker laughed jubilantly. "Hoo-hoo! Finally, we gave them the slip!"

". . . Wanna bet!?" exclaimed Lark.

The Joker was aghast. The Batmobile sped out of another alley just ahead of them. Lark swerved just in time, and the Batmobile sped past going the other way. Two seconds later, the clown car raced out of yet another alley and right across their path into another one.

"Brace for Emergency Bat-turn!" announced Batman.

He pulled a lever, and the Bat-chutes popped out, slowing their car enough to go through a sudden U-turn and take off after the Joker.

"Quick, try another alley!" Joker shouted.

Lark did so, bringing them back out onto the first street, at the same time the Batmobile came out of yet another alley and the clown car came out of a third alley on the opposite side of the street. The three cars swerved around each other and entered three more separate alleys.

"What is this!?" exclaimed Prank. "A getaway car rodeo!?"

Their getaway car emerged onto yet another street and turned away from the downtown area. Moments later, the clown car emerged from another alley and took off in the same direction, this time in emfront/em of the Joker's car!

"How'd they get ahead of us!?" Joker exclaimed.

"How'd they get behind us?" Ab wondered.

And then the Batmobile emerged from another alley and turned onto the street, racing just ahead of the clown car!

"Holy about face!"

"If we can get behind them again, we can deploy the Bat-beam to disable their engine," said Batman. "And I think I see a way just up ahead."

Up ahead was a roundabout with a monument pillar in the center. Reaching it first, Batman's plan was to encircle the roundabout once and thus get behind the Joker's car again. Unfortunately, Ab starting encircling the roundabout in the opposite direction, forcing the Batmobile to swerve to avoid her, while the Joker's gang encircled it the right way and also had to swerve to avoid the clown car, forcing them to keep going all the way around the roundabout. In this way, all three cars drove around it in opposite directions several more times before they finally broke away down the same street, the Joker first, then the Batmobile, and finally after two extra circuits, the clown car.

Moments later, the sound of screeching tires erupted from the street, followed immediately by a loud crash of metal on metal and glass.

The cause was Phil's car crashing through a glass bus stop enclosure and then into a parked farm truck full of wooden produce crates. The Batmobile screeched to a halt just behind it. Batman and Robin jumped out of their car to see the clown car come up behind them, but at an increasingly slow pace, until it finally ground to a halt and its engine died just short of the Batmobile's rear bumper.

"Sounds like they ran out of gas!" noted Robin.

They also finally managed to trip the door locks. Ab, Phil, Feathers, and over a dozen crash dummies exploded out of the car.

"Are you all right, citizens!?" asked Batman.

"Sure, that was fun!" exclaimed Ab. "I can't wait to get my driver's license so I can do that again!"

"Quickly then, old chum, let's catch those cackling crooks!"

Batman and Robin dashed to Phil's car, but when they looked inside, all but one of the Joker's four minions were out like lights. The fourth, Gag, looked like he'd stayed way too long past Happy Hour as he shoved open the rear door and struggled to stand up.

Half-conscious and swaying precariously, he gawped at the costumed crimefighters and moaned in a slurred, shaky voice, "Aw, crud! Nabbed by the Caped Crusaders! All six of 'em!"

He fainted.

"The poor devils," said Batman. "Going around and around that roundabout so fast must have made them dizzy to the point of unconsciousness."

"It's a good thing we activated the Batmobile's anti-dizziness restraints!" declared Robin.

"Indeed." Batman then turned to Phil, Ab, and Feathers. "But I am curious. How did you manage to avoid becoming so dizzy?"

"I put myself into a deep meditative state while we were going around," said Phil.

"When you fly on a regular basis, you gotta be good at coming out of sudden spin-outs quickly," added Feathers. "And Ab is used to being dizzy."

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Robin. "Where's the Joker!?"

Robin's answer came as a maniacal laugh from their arch-nemesis as he stood on the roof of a nearby building. "You're not the only ones who know how to keep their head together in a spin!"

"Coward!" shouted Robin. "Come down here and fight like a man!"

"Sorry, Boy Blunder! But if there's one thing that I, the Clown Prince of Crime, have learned in my incomparable criminal career, it's this!" He pointed to Phil and Ab. "Never tangle with people who are even crazier than you!" And with a final hysterical laugh, he disappeared into the alleys.

Unable to pursue him, Batman and Robin instead looked down at the unconscious hoods in the car and at their feet. "Holy anticlimax!" exclaimed Robin. "You mean after all that, we aren't even going to have our usual throw-down with the bad guys!?"

"Perhaps it's just as well, Robin," said Batman sagely. "What sort of example are we teaching to the children of the world if we always settle our differences by pounding the criminals to a pulp?"

"Gosh, you're right, Batman!"

Phil replied, "I couldn't agree more."

Ab added, "Neither could I! I never liked pulp. I like my orange juice without it."

Feathers muttered, "I wonder how many readers just threw up?"

**The characters of Phil Harmonik, Ab Normal, and Feathers belong to me. The characters of Batman, Robin, and the Joker were originally created by Bob Kane, Bill Finger, and Jerry Robinson, and are currently owned by DC Comics. The _Batman_ TV show from which these versions of the characters are based is copyright to Greenway Productions, 20th Century Fox Television, Warner Bros. Television Distribution, and probably at least a dozen other companies fighting for their share of the royalties.**

**And of course, we must thank the actors who brought these versions of the characters to life: Adam West, Burt Ward, and Special Guest Villain Cesar Romero as the Joker!**

**(Between you and me, Jack Nicholson is Best Joker, but he wasn't quite silly enough for this novel.)**


	9. Baseball Scandal in St Louis

**Chapter 8**  
**Baseball Scandal in St. Louis, or**  
**Cardinal Sin**

The Downtown Fitness Center in St. Louis was packed with athletes, fitness fanatics, and anyone just looking to lose a few more pounds of fat or gain a few more pounds of muscle. Every room was in use: the weight room, basketball and handball courts, swimming pool, aerobics classes, the indoor track, hundreds of people all together were getting physically fit or just relieving stress before having to endure the tension of yet another workday. And as always, after sweating it all out for their workouts, they needed to hit the showers. At the moment, four guys who just finished several hard rounds of handball were about to do just that.

The first shower room they tried was already occupied by three men who were all fully clothed, briefly surrounded by the last dying traces of transmat energy, and getting thoroughly drenched. One of them had been in a partially-pulped state when transport began, and the sudden reconstitution and realignment of his muscles during quantum reassembly triggered sharp reflexes in his arms that made direct hits on two adjoining shower knobs, hard enough to snap them right off the water pipes.

"Myran," began Homer, "how long since you used a transmat?"

"I _have_ had all the necessary training."

"Don't give up your day job."

Joe was picking up the broken shower knobs. "Boy, I don't know my own strength."

Homer finally noticed the four sweaty men staring at them, and how increasingly angry their moods were. "Something tells me they know theirs."

Myran faced their antagonists with the calm of a termazid with nine cultural-observation missions to his credit. Homer faced them with the panic of a guy about to be stuffed head-first into a fishbowl with live piranhas. Joe just held up the broken shower heads and said, "You ought'a call a plumber. These showers are falling apart."

Seconds later, he, Myran, and Homer flew out the Center's back door into a heap of garbage cans.

"Well, at least I landed in familiar surroundings," Joe observed.

"Nice going, Myran!" groaned Homer. "Look at us, tossed out of some joint like we were bums, all because you couldn't beam us to the right place!"

"Yeah, the _women's_ shower," added Joe.

"Shut up!"

"All right, maybe the transmat settings didn't exactly match up to the intended coordinates," Myran conceded, "but if you'll just look up at that gigantic arch behind you, you'll see that we _did_ materialize in St. Louis. So let's just, as you humans say, chalk this up to experience and go find my communicorder."

As they walked out of the alley, a middle-aged woman approached them on the sidewalk. She was about to pass by them when she caught a glance of Joe. Immediately furious, she stomped up to him and shouted, "How dare you remind me of somebody I hate!" She then clobbered him with her purse and stormed off.

Home turned to Joe. "Do you just have one of those faces?"

"If I do, I want a refund."

Myran already had the Good Will distribution list out. "According to this list, the clothes will be distributed to ten different Good Will shops. We can't afford the time it would take to search them all. However, according to the airline schedules, and accounting for statistical uncertainties in aircraft arrival times typical for this nation-state, the aircraft with our shipment will arrive at the St. Louis airport at any time between -" He finished calculations on his spare communicorder. "- thirty-seven minutes ago and three-point-six hours from now."

"Didn't you say the flight makes a connection in Chicago?" asked Homer.

"Make that three-point-six _days_ from now." muttered Joe.

"The point is," said Myran impatiently, "if we can intercept the entire shipment at the airport, it will save us all that time."

"But what if by some miracle the flight gets in early?" countered Homer. "Why don't we split up? Some of us go to the airport while the rest get an early start on the shops?"

"It's a reasonable plan," agreed Myran, "except there's only three of us. Splitting up further means one of us will be on their own."

Joe and Homer quickly sidled up together. "Don't worry, I'm sure you can take care of yourself," declared Joe.

Myran frowned. "I get the feeling you two don't appreciate my company."

"Trust your feelings, padawan," replied Homer in a cheesy imitation of a wise old teacher from a cheesy sci-fi movie.

"It's not that we think you're boring company, Myran," added Joe, "we just think you're boring company."

"I think _your_ company needs new management," retorted Myran.

Homer and Joe did double-takes toward each other. "Did he just make a _joke_?" Homer exclaimed to Joe.

"As a cultural observer, I have to study all aspects of a planet's society, and that includes their concepts of humor . . . which in your case I have to say are also many centuries behind the Confederation."

"Are you saying our jokes are uncivilized!?" demanded Homer.

"Two words: Three stooges."

"Well, here's two other things for you!" Homer held out two fingers and shot them right toward Myran's face, but Myran's reflexes were too quick and he dodged out of the way. Homer's fingers ended up in Joe's eyes instead.

"OW!" shrieked Joe. Infuriated and half-blind, he slapped Homer loudly right in the face. Homer responded with, "Why you-!" and pounded his fist on Joe's forehead with a loud, hollow Konk!

"A wise guy, huh!?" He slammed his palm into Homer's forehead. Homer grabbed Joe's nose between two fingers and twisted. Joe knocked his hand away, and used his own hands on Homer's face like was a dribbling a basketball. Homer poked Joe's eyes again. Joe poked Homer's eyes back and slapped him on both sides of the face for good measure.

_I'm going to hate myself in the morning_, thought Myran. Nevertheless, he grabbed the backs of Homer and Joe's collars and slammed their foreheads into each other, ending the mayhem.

"If you're through making knuckleheads of yourselves, here's the Good Will list." Myran handed them the list as they both rubbed their thick skulls in pain -

"Whaddaya mean, 'thick' skulls!?" growled Homer.

Shut up!

Myran tapped another data query into his spare communicorder. "According to your planet's GPS system, the nearest store on the list should be only five blocks north and two blocks west of this location. You go there, I'm heading for the airport right now."

Not even pausing to ask how Myran was going to get there, Homer and Joe turned on their heels and walked away. Myran followed the alley in the other direction until he reached a busy street, whereupon another data query told him the airport was much too far to walk to within a reasonable amount of time. Following a custom he once saw on an Earth television broadcast on how to flag down a taxi, when he saw one approach, he bent down and pulled up his right pants leg, exposing his bare leg up to just above his knee.

Instead of stopping abruptly as he expected, the taxi sped right on by, straight through a large puddle next to him. Thoroughly drenched, Myran followed another Earth custom, shaking his fist in the direction the taxi had gone and shouting, "Wednesday driver!"

While Myran battled St. Louis motorists, Homer and Joe approached the other end of the alley alongside the fitness center. "Which way did he say the shop was?" Joe asked Homer.

"Five blocks north and two blocks west."

"Which way is north?"

"That's easy. Just find a tree and look on which side the moss is growing."

Their end of the alley emerged onto a vacant lot. "Does moss grow on the north side of a rusty truck chassis?" asked Joe, pointing to one of the few things standing in the decidedly treeless lot.

Before Homer could reply, electrical leads on wires suddenly shot into their sides and delivered several thousand volts each. Homer instantly spasmed like he'd been spearfishing for electric eels and toppled over on the ground in a dead faint. Joe, on the other hand, just stood there glancing at the electrical lead for a few seconds before casually plucking it out.

Two young police officers quickly raced into view on the other ends of the tasers they just used on Homer and Joe. They spared the unconscious Homer only a quick glance, but stared in surprise at Joe. "What happened!?" one demanded. "How come my taser didn't drop you!?"

"Are you kidding? I've been through so many electrical shorts at home and at work, I've built up a tolerance. Anything under ten thousand volts doesn't even faze me."

The other officer pulled out her billy club and clocked Joe over the head.

"_That_ still does," he noted, and promptly keeled over.

Sometime later, he and Homer woke up to the sounds of an argument:

"Hey, they were coming out of the alley behind the gym right on time!" protested the male officer who accosted them.

A new voice retorted, "Did you even _look_ at them!? Do they _look_ like they could be baseball players!?"

Another new voice snapped, "Let alone players on steroids!"

The very next thing Homer noticed was he was curled up in the back of a police car. And Joe was curled up on top of him. And Joe was mouth-breathing right into his face. And Homer had an overwhelming urge to puke.

"Joe," he croaked, "does the word 'mouthwash' mean anything to you?"

"Sure it does," Joe murmured. "But I'm not really thirsty right now. Unless it's to wash down an aspirin for this headache."

"Oh, you're awake," said the first new voice as it approached the car. "What're your names?"

"I'm Joe Fool," he answered, breathing it into Homer's face.

Homer nearly fell unconscious again before replying, "And I'm Halitosis Zelch- I-I mean, Homer Zelchel." Regaining some strength, he started pushing Joe off himself as he added, "Why'd you sneak up behind us and zap us!?"

"I'm sorry, it was all a big mistake." She referred to the two officers from before standing behind her and added, "They thought you were . . some other people who use that gym."

"Some other people being baseball players on steroids?" guessed Joe.

" . . You heard that part."

"Yeah," said Homer. "You don't mean the Cardinals, do you?"

"That's what we're investigating," said her partner. "And now that you've heard this much, you better come inside. Our sergeant'll tell you more."

Homer and Joe followed the cops inside the precinct, where they were made to stand waiting briefly while one of the officers went over to a desk on the far side of the office to announce their arrival. At a signal from her, Homer and Joe walked the rest of the way to the desk, and they saw everything on it was arranged picture-perfect. Pencils and pens stood neatly in separate cans, papers were stacked in two piles perfectly squared with the desk corners with not a single sheet misaligned, and a single desk lamp stood at one corner towering over everything in a perfectly circular arc. The man at the desk looked at them with a face that could have been etched out of granite, it was so stony, and he wore the shirt, tie, and slacks of a three-piece suit that was perfect cleaned and pressed. All in all, he looked like the very embodiment of the perfect, professional police officer.

"My name is Sergeant Friday. Have a seat," he said in a voice as perfectly flat as everything else about him.

Homer suddenly had a funny feeling about this...

As he and Joe sat down in the chairs offered, Friday flatly continued, "I apologize for my two rookies involving you in this operation. I suppose you're wondering what it's about."

"I suppose we are," said Homer.

"I'm not," muttered Joe. Homer elbowed him with a sharp, "Shh!"

"These are the facts. Just the facts. At 5:34 PM October 27, we received a call from the wife of one of the reserve players for the Cardinals. She reported that her husband had been experiencing violent mood swings and anxiety attacks lately. At 7:09 PM, an officer went to her house to talk to her, but when her husband appeared, he became agitated and ejected the officer from the premises.

"Following a hunch, at 9:13 AM the next morning, another officer went to the house and found an unmarked, empty medicine bottle in the suspect's trash. Lab analysis at 1:52 PM found traces of illegal anabolic steroids. Acting on further tips received at 2:44 PM November 1, 6:30 AM November 3, and 12:17 PM November 9, we've investigated other reserve Cardinals and found evidence of similar anabolic steroids."

"How do you remember all those dates and times?" asked Joe.

"I don't. Even though the story you have just heard is true, the dates and times have been changed to protect our vacation schedules."

Another officer approached the desk. "Sergeant, I've finished the report on the doping sting. Pretty much a repeat of the last one; I barely had to change more than the names."

"All right, Sam, send it off to Headquarters."

"Do you want it sent by fax or scanned into an email?"

"Just the fax, Sam."

Mike went away. Homer and Joe wished they could go away too, but Friday turned back to them and continued to drone: "We suspect the athletes are getting the steroids from their team's doctor, who in turn is getting them from an unknown supplier, but every attempt at a sting operation has failed. Either the suspects failed to show up at the expected places, or the officers participating in the sting were assaulted and forced to abort the operation. The assailants are believed to be former baseball athletes dropped from the team for previous drug violations. They may still be using illegal steroids, and frequent the gym where our junior officers found you."

"Is that a fact?" asked Joe, his own voice as flat as Friday's.

"The facts are inconclusive, but we suspect the drug suppliers have an informant in the police department. We began an internal investigation of this possibility at 10:28 AM Monday." He noticed an officer passing by and flagged her down: "Pam, what's the status of Monday's investigation?"

"Well Friday, Monday's investigation was stalled until Wednesday because Lieutenant Thursday's son Dayvid got sick Saturday and Dr. Toos' day clinic was closed."

"Sounds like a week excuse for the delay," said Friday. "Send out a memo that everyone's to meet with Internal Affairs asap."

"I'll post it on all the bulletin boards too." She turned to leave but then paused and asked, "Are there any staples left?"

"Just the tacks, Pam."

Pam left. Homer and Joe hoped they could leave too, but Friday had other plans for them. He leaned close and quietly said, "How would you men like to do a service for law and order?"

"Church or wedding?" asked Joe.

Homer elbowed him again and said, "What kind of service really?"

"Until our internal investigation is concluded, we won't know who we can trust on the force, but you just might be able to get us the evidence we need to shut down this doping ring for good and save the reputation of our baseball team."

"You want _us_ to go undercover!?" exclaimed Homer in a harsh whisper. "With those bulked up ex-baseball goons!?"

"You won't be meeting them, you'll be meeting the team's doctor at the stadium. We're certain he's the linchpin. We'll wire you up for voice recording, and you'll go to the doctor tomorrow morning claiming to be bookies looking for crooked tips, and that you're willing to cut him in on the take if he can 'guarantee' odds on the Cardinals. Get him to spill the beans about whatever steroids he's giving the athletes, then we'll do the rest.

"There may be some danger involved - I won't lie to you about that - but your cooperation will be a big help in law enforcement's long struggle against illegal narcotics, as well as restore and preserve the reputation of the great American institution of baseball."

"Why not?" replied Joe. "Us institutions gotta stick together."

Homer turned to him. "Who says we're an institution?"

"Everyone on the internet."

"No Joe, everyone on the internet says we should be _in_ an institution."

Friday continued, "Do you understand what I'm asking you to do for us?"

Joe replied in as flat a tone as ever, "Yessir. Tomorrow morning at 10 AM, we are to approach the suspect in the locker rooms of the Cardinals' baseball stadium, brook the subject of odds-making and gambling kickbacks, and lull the suspect into divulging the facts, just the facts, about any illegal substances being administered to the athletes and where said illegal substances are being obtained."

Friday's eyes narrowed. "Are you making fun of the way I talk?"

"It's contagious."

"One question," said Homer. "We have a friend here in St. Louis who's expecting us to take care of some other business. What do we tell him?"

"This operation is top secret, only for you, me, and the special team you'll meet tomorrow morning at 8:14 AM to wire you up for sound. Under no circumstances are you to tell anyone about it. Until we know if there really is a mole and who it is, no one can be trusted."

"You're trusting us," Joe pointed out.

"Neither of you could possibly work for the drug supplier."

"Of course not!" Homer declared. "We're obviously honest, law-abiding citizens."

"No. You're obviously too sickly to be drug enforcers."

"Sickly!?" exclaimed Homer. "I'm in the peak of health!" He glanced at Joe. "Though I can't vouch for Joe. With his luck, he probably had a few major diseases in his time."

"Not true. I only had one in my life," Joe flatly told Homer and Friday.

"Which one?" asked Friday.

"Just the pox, Man." After a pause, he added, "Now let us out of here so I can get emotions back into my speech."

Meanwhile, wet and frustrated from numerous taxi rejections, Myran finally gave up and started walking to the airport. In his months spent among humans and after studying reports compiled by past observation agents, Myran was amazed at how apathetic humans could be toward one another. Yet he never expected fifteen taxis would drive right by him without even slowing down or even avoiding the puddle in front of him. _No Earth cleaning techniques will ever get all the mud out of my clothes/em, he thought. emI'm glad my body temperature is lower than that of humans or I'd probably be hypothermic by now._

During his hike, he passed an alley from which he heard a small commotion. Peeking inside, he saw a tall, muscular man in a skintight blue leotard, red boots and briefs, and a large letter S on his chest, grunting with exertion as he struggled to pull a large red cloth out of a cell phone.

"God, I miss phone booths," the man grumbled.

Two more hours later, Myran finally entered the airport terminal, after accessing the city's public transportation specs and finding a combined bus route that would get him there. Upon entering, he checked the flight monitor and saw that, by either coincidence or luck, the aircraft with their charity shipment was scheduled to land in just ten minutes.

His plan couldn't be simpler: Once the plane landed, its cargo hold would hopefully be within range to let his spare communicorder detect the missing one. All he would have to do then is scan for it, and if it was there, remotely program the transmat back in Poker Bluffs to lock onto it and beam it back. No muss, no fuss, and everyone would be back home by suppertime.

Except that all of a sudden, every listing on the monitor changed to DELAYED.

Almost immediately, there was consternation throughout the terminal as travelers swarmed the ticket counters demanding to know what was going on. Based on his studies of human society and aviation technology, Myran knew it could be anything from a suspicious vehicle on the runway, to a system crash in air traffic control, to a luggage handlers' strike, to someone forgetting to turn off their cell phone on one of the planes.

Whatever the reason, Myran also knew that if the delay persisted for too long, the planes might start being diverted to other airports, and then his communicorder might really be lost. For the sake of preventing its advanced technology from ending up in the wrong hands, he might have to bend the rules against directly influencing a pre-contact culture, and take some kind of action to resolve whatever the problem was.

He searched for an airport official who wasn't otherwise occupied with official duties or irate customers. Finally he had to corner an official who was coming out of an Employees-Only entrance and demand, "Excuse me, can you tell me why all incoming flights have been delayed."

The official regarded Myran with a grim, unemotional look and impatiently replied, "We don't want to cause a panic among the public, but we're in the middle of an emergency."

"An emergency? What is it?"

"It's an unexpected situation requiring immediate action."

It took a few moments for Myran to realize he needed to rephrase his question. "I mean, what _kind_ of emergency is it?"

"An unidentified aircraft is approaching this airport. It's not responding to any radio contact, and its course is erratic."

"So you're diverting all of your airplanes out of its way? How much of a delay are you expecting before they can resume course for the airport?"

"If they _can_ resume course." The official's tone became even grimmer. "If this unidentified craft crashes into the airport, it will bring all of our flight operations to a screeching halt faster than a fee increase for checked bags."

"If scheduled flights aren't permitted to land here, where will you send them?"

"To any one of several other airports within range. Kansas City, Peoria, Springfield, Memphis -"

"How do I find out which one my plane will be sent to?"

"Try Lost and Found. But you'll have to show them your insurance card as proof of ownership."

"My _what_!?" This official's thought processes deviated substantially from the human norm, although Ab and Rhoda's were probably compatible. Time for a different approach: "Can you tell me what your people are doing to avert this unknown aircraft's approach?"

"We've already radioed the nearest Air Force base, but they won't be able to scramble a jet in time to shoot it down before it arrives."

"Shoot it down!?" Why was it so rare for the human military to find a solution that didn't involve shooting or blowing up anything? "There must be another way! Can't you access the aircraft's control system and land it safely out of the way of the other planes?"

"Successfully land a full-size jet at a busy airport by remote control? That's ludicrous, sir. It's much too great a risk to the lives on the ground and in the other loaded aircraft in the vicinity to attempt such a complicated maneuver through potentially unreliable wireless transmissions."

"Surely you can at least gain enough control to steer it away from the airport."

"It's out of the question. And don't call me Shirley."

With that non sequitur, the official turned and walked back through the Employees-Only entrance.

Myran came to a decision: If there was any chance his missing communicorder might be diverted from St. Louis to an unknown destination, he had to prevent it. If Earth technology was unable to assume remote control of an errant aircraft, maybe his spare communicorder could.

First, he hacked into the airport's radar system - a simple task against Earth's primitive computer system protections - and identified the location of the rogue aircraft. Second, he would transmit a signal to the aircraft that would override its controls and slave them to his communicorder. Third, he would remotely pilot it safely away from the airport, ending the emergency so that all scheduled flights would be free to land, and no human would be the wiser as to his intervention.

Except the second part of his plan wasn't working. He wasn't getting any confirmation signal that his override had even been received. Analysis indicated that firewalls in the aircraft's system were blocking his override commands. Myran couldn't help but be impressed. For this to happen would require the operating system to have highly sophisticated protection algorithms, possibly decades more advanced than other human firewalls. Perhaps this aircraft was an experimental model...

But of course it still left him with the problem of averting the imminent security breach of the airport. There was another tactic he could try: Program his communicorder to transmit signals that would fool the aircraft's instruments into thinking it was somewhere else, then either the pilot or the autopilot would change their own course away from the airport. The problem was that to do this, he'd have to be a lot closer to the aircraft.

Seeing how it was still the best tactic open to him, Myran went back outside and hurried around to the far side of a parking garage where there appeared to be as few people in the vicinity as possible. He then activated the anti-gravity harness hidden under his shirt, looked around to make doubly sure no one was looking, and with blinding speed he suddenly rocketed upwards into the sky.

A valuable feature of the harness was that by manipulating gravity and inertia, the wearer could withstand incredible acceleration without feeling all those nasty side effects like blood rushing from the head, or being squashed into toothpaste, or ending up with your face stretched out like an overzealous L.A. plastic surgeon got their hands on you. The upward acceleration Myran executed meant that anyone watching while he took off would only see a split-second blur they would likely write off as just seeing things, while all his research indicated he would be too small to register on the airport's radar.

Zooming in the direction of the mystery plane, he could finally see it with his own eyes. The first thing he noticed was that it appeared to be some kind of military jet. The second thing was that it flying in a highly erratic manner. This ruled out autopilot control, and suggested the living person who was flying it was either very ill or had little idea of how to fly it. The third thing he noticed was the unusually bright color of the aircraft. Granted, he still had a lot to learn about human military customs, but he had yet to hear of any preference for aircraft of _this_ color.

Further study had to be halted however, when he realized a passenger jet in a holding pattern was coming up right behind him. Instinctively, through commands directly from his own brain, Myran willed his harness into high acceleration and streaked out of the plane's path at G's that would turn a human's brains into baby food. Unfortunately, in his haste he forgot to watch where he was going. Before he knew it, the mystery jet plowed right into him and continued on course with Myran plastered all over the windshield.

**Myran, Homer, and Joe are mine, all mine. So are the guys in the gym showers and most of the police persons. Sergeant Friday's character belongs to Mark VII Productions, created and brought to life by Jack Webb. The guy at the airport who didn't want to be called Shirley is copyright to Paramount Pictures and brought to life by Leslie Nielsen. The guy with his cape stuck in a cell phone is copyright to DC Comics and brought to life by . . . well, take your pick.**


	10. The Mountain Encounter

**Chapter 9**  
**The Mountain Encounter, or**  
**To Lend an Alpine Hand**

Out of control, Ima's and Gary's rented car skidded on the mountain highway and zoomed right over the cliff edge . . . and braked to a stop on a ledge three feet down.

After surveying their predicament for several moments, Ima finally broke the silence. "You see, Gary," she said calmly, "I told you there was nothing to worry about."

"Look me in the eye and say that again," dared Gary.

"Not on your life," answered Ima. "I'd like to get my hands on the bozos in that motorcycle! What do you suppose happened to them?"

The bozos were slowly drifting down the mountainside into a deep ravine on an emergency parachute jury-rigged to their motorcycle. Klink and Schultz, after having shot Ima's car out of control, lost control themselves and sailed over the cliff edge as well. Unlike Ima and Gary, they missed the ledge and were now hanging on to their cycle for dear life.

"_Schul-l-l-l-ltz!_ Why didn't you look where you were going!?"

"At the moment, I can't look at _anything_!" A true enough statement, given that Schultz had his eyes squeezed so tightly shut, they were liable to pop out the back of his head. "Did we stop them!?"

"_Ja_, and nearly sent them over the cliff along with us, if not for the wildest stroke of luck!"

"A pity! Misery loves company!"

"You want to know what misery is!? If we don't get our hands on those components and get rid of those spies, headquarters will give us both a twenty-one gun salute . . right through our chests!"

"Remind me to buy some bulletproof underwear before we get back to base!"

"Shut up, Schultz! I have a new plan. A very _cunning_ plan this time! Instead of just killing them, we will capture the woman. If the man is anything like the spies in our day, he has an irresistible weakness for the ladies. We ransom her life for the components, then when we have them both in our power..." He made a slashing motion across his throat, accented with a sickening slicing noise through his teeth. "Agreed?"

"_Jawohl_, Herr Klink!" They shook hands on it just as their cycle landed with a bump in the middle of a pack of wild goats. Their plan thus had to be temporarily delayed while they attempted to avoid being butted by three dozen angry goats.

Further down the road, back the way everyone came, the third man stood next to his parked bicycle on a vantage point where he could watch the auto "accident" through a pair of binoculars. He watched Ima and Gary climb back onto the road and set off on foot, then watched Klink and Schultz land on the bottom of the ravine and get chased away by the local wildlife. He then lowered the binoculars and furrowed his brow in confusion. Hanging the binoculars on the bicycle's handlebar, he bent down and pulled off one of his shoes. Bringing it up to his head, he flipped up the heel to reveal a small speaker hidden underneath, then flipped up the sole to reveal another small speaker and a keypad. He dialed a number and spoke into the sole with a clipped voice, "Agent 86 to Control. Come in, Chief."

_"Go ahead, Max."_

"I've been trailing the enemy agents through a mountain pass out of Athens."

_"Do they still have the components? Any idea why they haven't passed them on yet?"_

"No, and those two other agents they were supposed to pass the components to chased them along the mountain road and just made an attempt on their lives. The first two got away on foot, and the other two are stranded."

_"Hmm, it's possible the first two might be double-crossing the other two."_

"Or maybe quadruple-crossing!"

_". . _Quadruple_-crossing?"_

"Well Chief, there are _four_ of them."

Long-suffering impatience colored the Chief's reply: _"Max, where are the first two agents going with the package?"_

"One moment, Chief." Max put his shoe-phone down on the bicycle seat and pulled a road map from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. He spread it out on the ground, retrieved his phone, and traced the roads while continuing: "Let's see . . based on the local terrain, directions of visible mountain peaks and shapes of intervening valleys, I can identify their present geographic location. Then, using the direction of the sun to determine that they're traveling west-northwest, estimating their maximum walking distance before sundown and the layout of local roads . . Chief, I can safely predict they are headed for the exact center of downtown Boston!"

_"Boston!? In Greece!?"_

Max's confidence suddenly faltered, and he took another, closer look at his map. "Sorry about that, Chief. I grabbed the wrong map."

_"And _I_ sent the wrong agent," the Chief muttered. Louder, he demanded, "Max, follow those spies and find out what they plan to do with the components. Perhaps they plan to sell them to some other foreign power or criminal organization. If they are,you must get them back before then!"_

"Right away, Chief!"

_"Be careful, Max! If they _are_ pulling a double-cross, they'll be anticipating further attacks by the other two agents. You may find yourself walking straight into an ambush!"_

"And . . loving it!"

Two miles from the scene of the crime, the road finally turned away from the dangerous ravine and veered into a relatively spacious mountain pass. Here, Ima and Gary, who had been forced to walk the entire distance with all their supplies stuffed into backpacks - including the components, which they decided were too valuable to leave behind in Athens - came upon several forks in the road, with an old sign showing the routes with an assortment of arrows, all written in Greek. Gary studied them for a moment and turned to Ima, but before he could say anything, Ima turned to him and growled, "If you say, 'It's all Greek to me,' I'll bash your stupid head in!"

"I wasn't gonna say that!"

"That was in case you were!"

"Look Ima, how are we gonna find Doesn't-Matterhorn if we can't read the signs!?"

"Easy. That woman sitting by the road over there. We'll just ask directions."

The woman appeared on the elderly side, dressed in several thick shawls and sitting in an old wicker chair next to a few scant piles of pottery and a small two-wheeled hand cart. A hand-painted sign in Greek included numbers that they guessed were prices for the pottery. "What if she doesn't speak English?" asked Gary.

"We'll worry about that if it turns out she doesn't!"

The woman looked up at the two travelers as they stopped in front of her. She studied them for several seconds, warily at first and then with growing curiosity, as if she wanted to memorize every aspect of them before deciding to open a dialogue. She finally did:

"Yo, dudes! What's shakin'?"

Ima and Gary looked at her in surprise. Maybe she's from California, Ima thought. Or from Phil's hometown. "Uh . . ." she began, "how do you do? Could give us directions to Doesn't-Matterhorn?"

"Whoa, man! Like, why do you dudes wanna trip to such a geeky place? Like, it's a totally unhip scene, ya know. Fact, it's no scene at all, ya know what I mean? Total drag of a pad!"

"Well, uh, _dudette_," answered Gary, trying to meet the lady on her level - or her language - "we, like, lost something in a pile a' clothes. And, like, it just freaked us out, ya know, and we gotta find it, man. We think it might'a wound up in that town, ya dig?"

"Cosmic, man! Well, ya just scope out that road right there," she said, pointing at the second fork from the left, "and like, you'll be there before ya can say, 'Cowabunga!' Stay loose, dudes!"

"Uh . . groovy, man," Ima replied. "Thanks loads."

She and Gary walked away, taking the fork indicated. When they were far enough away, they looked at each other, and then Gary commented, "See? I told you she might not speak English."

Once she was sure Ima and Gary were out of sight and earshot, the old woman reached into one of the ceramic pots and pulled out a pottery knife. She twisted the handle, and the blade suddenly lit up with tiny LED lights. She then spoke into the lighted blade in a decidedly non-dudette language, "This is Agent 99. Come in, Max."

_"Go ahead, 99."_

"Those two spies are heading for Doesn't-Matterhorn."

_"Any idea _why_ the spies are going there?"_

"They said they lost something in some clothes. Max, Doesn't-Matterhorn has a small second-hand shop that occasionally sells charitable donations, including some from the States. Do you suppose they're secretly meeting the other buyer there?"

_"The old Say-you-lost-something-in-a-clothing-donation-so-you-can-sell-classified-material-in-a-second-hand-shop ploy. Haven't heard that one used for at least a month!"_

99 stood up, quickly gathered up her things with her free hand, and transferred them to the cart while she said, "Max, as soon as I've cleaned up, I'm going to follow them. I'll meet you in the village."

_"Understood, 99. We'll rendezvous at the rear of the second-hand shop."_

"Ten-four, Max.

_"No, I'm 86, 99. 10 and 4 were assigned to guard the Fredonian ambassador at the peace talks."_

"No, didn't you hear? 9 and 62 were put on the case when 10 and 4 were suspended from duty. Seems they got drunk and smashed into 17's car the night before they were supposed to leave. Totaled her car completely!"

_"10 and 4 totaled 17? That doesn't add up!"_

While Secret Agent Maxwell Smart was once again living down to his name, Ima and Gary finally arrived in the quiet little village of Doesn't-Matterhorn. It was little enough that finding the second-hand store was a cinch. It sold everything from previously-used clothing to previously-used tools to previously-used furniture to food (_not_ previously-used, fortunately), and basically served as the village's general store.

Ima found the nearest chair just outside the store, pulled off her loaded backpack, and let it drop to the ground while she let herself drop into the chair with a loud, drawn-out groan.

"I am NEVER walking that far again!" Ima gasped. She strained to lift her backpack barely an inch off the ground while adding, "Certainly not carrying a load like this!"

Gary dropped his backpack on the ground but remained standing, and in fact stretched his arms and deeply inhaled and declared, "That was a _great_ hike! We should'a done that all the way from Athens!"

"We should'a _what_!? You mean you're not even tired!?"

"Sure, I got tired along the way, but I got my second and third winds, and now I'm just starting my fourth!"

"Are you taking Jerry's vitamins or what!? I can't even stand up again after that slo-mo marathon!"

Gary uttered a scoffing huff and replied, "Oh dear! But I can see why don't have the stamina -"

"Why!?" she snapped and in a very threatening tone. "_Why_ don't I have the stamina!? Because I'm a _woman_!? The _WEAKER SEX_!?"

"That's not what I meant!" Gary retorted.

Ima jumped to her feet and got right into Gary's face, snarling, "_It never stops with you male chauvinist donkey rectums, does it!? You have to put women down every time you even think one of us is about to prove we're every bit as strong as you so-called 'he-men'_!"

"IMA, FOR THE THREE MILLIONTH TIME!" Gary roared. "NONE OF US THINK WOMEN ARE WEAK! MY WIFE IS AN _ATHLETE_, FOR GOD'S SAKE! SHE SWIMS IN FREEZING COLD WATER ON A REGULAR BASIS! SHE'S ONE OF THE FITTEST PEOPLE I'VE EVER KNOWN, MAN _OR_ WOMAN! HER SEX HAS _ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH IT!_"

"Your wife -!" Ima retorted. "Your _young_ wife - oh, I get it! So for once it's not that I'm a woman, it's that you think I'm _old_! _Just 'cause someone's pushing forty, you whining little twenty-something bobble-heads think we're old and decrepit and all ready to be locked up in the nearest nursing homes, just 'cause we MIGHT need one extra rest stop to get somewhere!_"

"Why in hell would I think you're old just 'cause you're pushing forty!? Even if you _are_ pushing it from the high side!"

**"_WHAT!?_"**

"Forty, fifty, that's not old and decrepit! Hell, nobody would ever think Jerry is decrepit by _any_ stretch of the imagination! When are you gonna stop being so sensitive -!"

_"Sensitive! Oh, so you think I'm too SENSITIVE to be strong! That I wimp out at the slightest little pain or ache or I'm afraid to exert myself 'cause I might SWEAT a little -!"_

_"No I don't! You afraid!? You make everyone ELSE afraid!"_

**_"What, you're saying I'm too MEAN to be strong!?"_**

**_"NO! YOU BEING TIRED IS NOTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH YOU BEING A WOMAN OR MIDDLE-AGED OR SENSITIVE OR MEAN OR ANY OF THAT!"_**

**_"THEN WHAT IS I-I-I-IT!?"_**

**_"IT'S YOUR SHO-O-O-OES!"_**

**_"MY_** \- . . . . . my what?"

Gary pointed at her shoes. "That style is all wrong for walking. It puts all your weight on the wrong part of your foot, increasing compression stress in your legs and hips and forcing you to work harder than you have to, so you tire out faster."

" . . . . . . That's it? . . . . That's all it is?"

Folding his arms and smugly emphasizing every syllable, Gary replied, "_That's it._"

He gazed up and down at Ima, standing up in front of him. "And I thought you said you couldn't even stand up again."

"I got _my_ second wind," she replied. "And I'm gonna use it."

She went inside the store. A minute later, she came out with a large basket of local wildberries she just bought, and upended and smashed the whole thing on top of Gary's head.

"What'd you do _that_ for!?"

"That's for dissing my favorite shoes."

Minutes later, after Ima had rested up enough, and Gary had gone to a local inn for a quick shampoo, she went back into the shop, explained her situation to the owner, and set to work examining every article of clothing for the missing communicorder. Fortunately, it wasn't a big collection of clothes, so it took her less than half an hour to go through everything and come up empty. Since this location had the last of the second-hand clothing that was sent to Greece, Ima concluded the communicorder wasn't sent to Athens, and instead must be at one of the other four locations.

Logical. Flawlessly logical.

"Don't be a wise-ass!" she growled.

You don't bite Chip's head off when _he_ says it!

"Chip doesn't do sarcasm!"

Ima's only problem now was how to get home. It looked like, for the time being, she was stuck in Greece, since she couldn't contact Myran without a working cell phone because the frickin' phone company robbed her blind and blew her off with an automated menu of totally useless options, all of which assume, just like _every other_ big money-grubbing corporation, that _she_ owes _them_ money instead of the other way around -!

Before she could snowball into another full-on psychotic rant, she suddenly realized Gary never showed up to help. _I didn't think those berry stains would be _that_ hard to get out_, she thought. _If I'd known that, I would've used vegetables._

That train of thought was derailed when the shop's owner noticed that Ima was finished and walked up to her. "Is there anything else you need?" she asked in Grecian-accented English.

"You wouldn't happen to have a satellite-feed two-way radio lying around, would you?"

"No, but I have a telephone in the back room."

"A telephone? But the place I have to call is in America. The rates are probably through the roof."

"Oh, don't worry about it, I get a special discount. My brother works at the telephone company."

"You get a discount just for having a brother who works at the phone company?"

"He handles the telephone bills."

"Oh." Ima thanked the lady and went into the back room.

Unbeknownst - I never did like that word - _unknown_ to either of them, the two foreign spies were listening from outside. "Did you hear that?" Klink hissed to Schultz. "She must be going to call her superiors in Washington that they have the computer components! We must stop her! Schultz, quickly, go break the telephone cable!"

"With what?"

"Use your head, Schultz!"

"I don't think my head is sharp enough."

Klink gave him another piercing look and replied, "Truer words were never spoken."

Inside, Ima was just picking up the phone. Hearing no signal, she repeatedly pressed the cut-off switch in the cradle to no avail. Puzzled, she went back to the front room. "I think your phone's dead," she said to the owner.

"Dead? I didn't even know it was sick," she replied.

Ima gave her a strange look, then gave one to the people sitting in front of their screens and said, "I can't believe you're actually reading this garbage."

Turning back to her, Ima said, "I'll go outside and check the cable. Maybe it came loose."

She went outside and around the back of the building. Sure enough, the cable wasn't connected properly. "Cut?" she muttered to herself. "Who'd want to cut the phone cable?"

"We would!" exclaimed Klink, as he and Schultz jumped out from the bushes and grabbed her. Within seconds, they had relieved her of her backpack and bound and gagged her. Klink then pulled out his Luger and leveled it at Ima. "Do not scream, or I will blow your brains out!"

"Mmmph - mrumph, ermph!" Ima mumbled under her gag.

"What did she say?" Klink asked Schultz.

"She said, 'Mmmph - mrumph, ermph!'"

Klink shook his fist at Schultz in barely-contained rage.

Ima repeated her mumbles.

"What did you say?" Klink repeated to her, and took off Ima's gag to find out.

"I said, how am I supposed to scream with a gag over my mouth!?"

"She makes a good point, Herr Klink."

Klink glared at Schultz yet again and growled, "When I want your opinion, Schultz, I'll give it to you! Come on, we're going!"

"But how? Our motorcycle is stuck at the bottom of the ravine."

"I know that!" hissed Klink. "Find some other transportation!"

"Like what?"

Klink was quickly losing patience. "Use your head, Schul- No, wait! Let's not go through that again! Just find something! I'll take her into that abandoned house until you get back."

Meanwhile, Gary was just returning to the shop, his hair finally clean - and a lot thinner. He bought his own basket of wildberries.

"Revenge?" asked the owner.

Gary merely grinned broadly. He then looked around and, not finding who he was looking for, asked the owner, "Is Ima still here?"

"No. My phone was dead, and she went outside to check the cable, and I haven't seen her since."

Gary followed her outside to the phone cable. Ima wasn't there, but the owner voiced what they did find: "The cable's been cut!"

"Look at these bushes," said Gary. The bushes he pointed to near the cable had a large flattened area with many broken branches.

"Do you think someone was hiding in them?"

"Hiding from who? Ima?" Gary's mind went back to the scene with the mime, the package he was still carrying, and the motorcyclists who almost got them killed. Ima's secret agent theory began to sound more plausible by the second. "I'd better go look for her. Something about this doesn't smell right."

The owner sniffed the air. "I think it's your berries. They smell a little rancid."

Klink rummaged through Ima's backpack more and more vigorously with each passing second while waiting for his partner to return with a ride. "If I know Schultz," he griped to his captive, his attention focused on the backpack search, "he'll probably return in a loaded school bus. Twenty thousand spies in our adopted country.

Couldn't they partner me with someone competent for a change!?"

"And what country is that?" demanded Ima.

"You and your fellow spy will find that out soon enough - _if_ we decided to let you live long enough to find out!"

"_Spy_!? Whaddaya mean, spy!? Why do you think we're spies!?"

She suddenly had a thought. "Oh, wait . . the _real_ question is why that crazy _mime_ thought we're spies! It's those computer components, isn't it!?"

"Yes, and I can see we guessed right that your partner has them!" Klink upended the last of the backpack's contents on the floor to drive home the point.

"And now you can just re-pack my backpack, buster! And don't just shove everything back in, fold my clothes neatly!"

Klink gave her a _look_. "Are you forgetting who is the captor and who is the prisoner here!?"

"The ropes cutting into my body kind'a jogged my memory," she replied sarcastically.

Another memory suddenly came to her: "You said 'adopted' country. Where are you originally from?"

"From Germany. I was the commandant of a POW camp - the _only_ POW camp in Germany with a perfect no-escape record!" His face suddenly fell. "Or so I thought."

"Or so you thought?'

"I don't want to talk about it!" he snapped loudly.

"Wait, _Germany_!? Germany hasn't been at war with anybody since World War II!"

Just then, Schultz returned . . . with three horses. Klink was disgusted. "Horses!? Is that all you could come up with, Schultz!?"

"It was either this or a used bicycle and an old hand cart, Herr Klink."

"Wait a minute . . !" Ima's eyes went wide with realization, recognition, and indigestion. "Klink and Schultz . . You _couldn't_ be!"

"We could be, and we are!" insisted Schultz.

"That's impossible! Even if you really _were_ Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz - and even if you were _real_ \- you'd have to be over a hundred years old! How can you possibly look this young!?"

Schultz proudly replied, "I take very good care of myself! I exercise every day, and I always eat right!"

"And left, and in front, and behind, and every other direction around him, retorted Klink.

Schultz gave him an insubordinate look and huffed, "Hunh, I don't recall ever seeing _you_ say no to a double-helping of Weiner schnitzel and potato pancakes."

Klink glared daggers at him. "Schultz, you go too far!" he warned.

Schultz's eyes suddenly went wide. "And _we_ had better go even farther! Look!"

He pointed at Gary, who had just appeared in the distance and was looking straight at them.

"Gary!" yelled Ima. "I'm being kidnapped by old TV characters! Call the police!" Schultz tried to muzzle her as he and Klink dragged her to the horses, but she wriggled free enough to add, "No, wait! The real police'd never believe it! Call Miami Vice!"

"That sounds like Ima!" Gary exclaimed to himself. As Klink and Schultz slung her over one of the horse's backs and tied her to the saddle with more ropes, he exclaimed even louder, "That _is_ Ima! Hey, come back here with that Nutt, you nuts!"

He started running toward them, but it was too late. Klink and Schultz had already mounted the other two horses and galloped away, dragging the third horse behind them on a long lead. Ima found her ride to be exceedingly uncomfortable, especially after her saddle, which hadn't been strapped on tightly enough, slipped around the horse's middle to the low center of gravity, leaving her riding under the horse's stomach.

Despite being far outclassed by the horses in terms of speed, Gary kept running until he tripped and fell face-down into his berry basket. He quickly pulled it off, angry at his clumsiness and even angrier at the wasted shampoo. Knowing now that he could never catch them on foot, Gary looked around desperately for transportation. He dashed quickly into a nearby barn to find something, and spied a bicycle hidden inside. He grabbed it and pedaled in the direction he still saw the horse-riders moving at break-neck speed.

He was well clear of the village limits when suddenly two shots rang out, followed by a loud noise of snapping metal. The noise was Gary's rear tire breaking up. He spun out of control and toppled over in the middle of a large open field, and Gary landed face-down in the grass. Fortunately, the grass was thick enough that he was only stunned for a few seconds with a few minor scrapes. He got up, only to find Maxwell Smart standing a few feet away, pointing a gun straight at his chest.

"Oh great, another cliffhanger," Gary groaned.

"Only metaphorically speaking," Max pointed out, "since there's no cliff this time."

**Maxwell Smart, 99, and the Chief are copyright to CBS Television Distribution and brought to life by Don Adams, Barbara Feldon, and Edward Platt. Klink and Schultz are once again copyright to Bing Crosby Productions and brought to life by Werner Klemperer and John Banner. And Ima and Gary and every incidental character in this chapter are once again copyright to me and brought to life by nobody, unless by some miracle a movie producer with no shame whatsoever comes calling.**


	11. Til the Cows Come Home

**Chapter 10**  
**'Til the Cows Come Home, or**  
**Ma and Pa Cattle**

Fred spent the next two hours Googling "Ma and Pa Cattle" and all the sound-alikes he and Barney could think of before finally coming up with the reference.

"Are you _kidding_ me!?" he cried. "Is any reader under the age of _ninety_ going to get this!?"

"'Ma and Pa Cattle'!" exclaimed Jerry. "Ha-ha-ha, that's a good one!"

'H'oh boy," grumbled Fred.

He and Barney just finished driving seven hours across Texas in a rental car, and were now somewhere in the plains of west Texas between San Antonio and El Paso. There was supposed to be a small dude ranch in the area, a perfect opportunity for Barney to pretend to be a cowboy and for Fred to get the vacation he always wanted.

It was getting dark by the time they pulled up to the main building of the Cactus Saddle Dude Ranch. The two Triassic tenderfeet got out of the car, entered the building and moseyed up to the front desk.

"'Moseyed'?"

I'm trying to get into the spirit of things!

Anyway, they _moseyed_ up to the desk, yes they did! Behind it was a man with his back to them doing something desk clerks do; don't ask me what. Even just seen from the back, his attire was in every way that of the archetypal cowboy, a large hat with a wide brim, a plaid work shirt covered by a dusty, black leather vest, and a red bandanna encircling his neck. He had a lean body and a casual slowness in the way he shifted about, and his very air suggested a desert-hardened man with trouble in his eyes and more trouble in his polished six-shooter.

Fred turned to Barney and whispered, "You see this guy, Barn? We're out west now, we gotta be like him - tough as nails. Out here, men rope and brand half a dozen heads of cattle and bust at least three broncosauruses before breakfast."

"Right on, pardner," Barney whispered back enthusiastically, "and then they laugh about how sunburnt they are and how much dust they haf eeten."

"And then they wash down all that dust with three fingers of Ol' Red-eye."

"_Da_. Out here, men are _men_!"

Fred and Barney worked themselves into their best tough, western attitudes, hitched up their pants like they were both John Wayne, and then swaggered up to the front desk, where Fred boldly slapped his hand on the bell. Their cowhand clerk spun slowly around to face them, allowing Fred and Barney to see the clerk was also dressed in items that wouldn't exactly be considered archetypal cowboy.

On his face was a set of false glasses with nose and mustache, and on the front of his neck was a giant red bow tie with white polka dots.

"Howdy, pardners. What can I do fer ye?" he asked in a low, slow Western drawl.

Any thoughts of being tough, desert hardened cowboys with bold, swaggering attitudes were instantly forgotten. Fred and Barney just stared at the desk clerk for several seconds before Barney finally jolted from his trance and said, "Uh - uh, ve'd like a room, please. Ve're . . uh, staying for a few days . . . maybe a veek."

"Ye have a reservation?"

"Uh, no, we . . uh, this was a spur-of-the-moment thing," replied Fred.

Fred's face cracked into a smile as he turned to Barney and noted, "Hey, that's pretty funny! We decided to be cowboys on the _spur_ of the moment!" He let out a hearty, deep-throated laugh. Barney got the joke after a few moments and joined in, though his laugh was more like a hyena.

"Well, le's see," muttered the desk clerk after they quieted down, flipping through a small book next to the bell. "Yer in luck, pardners. Room 5 is free, an' plenty a room fer both a ye. Jus' sign here."

Fred signed the register, and the clerk said, "Deadwood here'll show ye to yer room," referring to his bellhop. "An' if ya need anythin', just call me. Th'name's Weird Bill."

"Weird Bill," repeated Fred. "Sure, let's go with that."

Deadwood was also dressed in an archetypal cowboy uniform, with the addition of a pair of beely-boppers attached to his hat. Fred and Barney wordlessly - and that took a great deal of effort on their part - followed him to their room, where they began to settle in and unpack.

"Boy, talk about roughing it," noted Fred as he turned on the TV. "The TV set is standard def." The TV was showing an old Western. "And the movie hasn't gone through digital restoration."

"Oh, I _love_ thees movie!" cried Barney. "Thee marshal and hees deputies chase thee gang of claim jumpers right eento Dead Man's Canyon, vhere dey ambush them een a crossfire. Only thee masked afenger and hees sidekeeck can safe them, but they are trapped een thee lost mine about to bee buried een a cave-een!"

"What's the title?"

"I don't know. That happens een at least three dozen moofees I've seen."

The rooster crowed right outside their window about half an hour after sunrise.

Barney groaned, rolled over, looked at the old clock on his bedside table, and woke fully with a jolt. "Vhy don't roosters learn how to tell time!?" he exclaimed. "A pterodactyl vould never let you ofersleep thees much!"

Fred groaned and rolled over for the hundredth time. "And I'll never get used to sleeping on these darn, cushy mattresses! Gimme a nice, firm stone slab any day!"

As soon as they were washed and brushed, the boys donned authentic cowboy outfits provided by Weird Bill. They began their first full day of the Western life with a hearty breakfast out at the chuck wagon, consisting of lumpy oatmeal, burnt toast, and bacon and eggs that were greasier than my ex-wife's divorce attorney.

"At least I won't have to worry about friction in my carburetor," Fred griped when breakfast was finished. "It's no wonder the Texas oil industry is still getting rich."

"And such small portions, too!" added Barney. "_Cheecken_ eggs!? There are supposed to bee many fossils een thee Vest of thee U.S. Can't they find any dinosaur eggs?"

Once their meal had time to settle - or slick, as the case may be - Fred and Barney decided to go "ride the range." As they went out to the barn, Barney remarked, "I am glad to see you are enjoying thees as much as I am, Fred," said Barney.

"Anything to get away from that lousy food, Barn. Let's see what kind of horses they have in the barn." Fred suddenly paused, and his face broke into a silly grin. "Hey, that's another good one! You're comin' with me to a _barn_, Barn!" He let out another hearty laugh.

Barney let out another hyena laugh, keeping it up until Fred impatiently grunted, "All right - all right!"

Inside the barn, Fred and Barn . . . It's not emthat/em funny. . . . They chose two horses, which were quickly saddled up by a ranch hand - who was in what would have been traditional cowboy duds if they weren't in bright yellow and orange stripes.

"No vonder so many cowboy moofies vere filmed een black-and-vhite," noted Barney as he mounted his steed.

Fred stuck his boot in his horse's stirrup and clumsily pulled himself up into the saddle. As soon as he did, the horse turned his head to Fred and brayed, "You're not Wilbur!"

"And you're not Silver. Shut up and giddy-up!"

He and Barney headed east along the face of a broad mesa overlooking a wide expanse of dry desert country. Overhead, the sky was completely cloudless, and the sun beat down hot on a plain broken only by the occasional shade of colorful bluffs and buttes. The plain stretched for miles and miles with no end in sight. And yet within those miles that the riders could see, there were sights that broke the seeming-lifelessness of the endless expanses: patches of tough grasses, tumbleweeds slowly tumbling in the light breeze, cacti of all shapes and sizes, rare desert flowers as beautiful as any varieties elsewhere, prairie dogs, fluttering insects, the occasional Gila monster, four Starbucks, two Walmart s, and a Chuck E. Cheese.

There was also a large cloud of dust billowing up from the southern horizon, growing larger and closer by the moment. "Boy, somebody's exhaust needs a lot of work," Fred remarked.

"That's not a car, sometheeng else ees kickeeng up all that dust. Perhaps eet's a dust-defil!"

In case some people reading this can't be bothered to Google it, a dust-devil (yes, that's the correct spelling) is a type of small tornado occasionally found in deserts. It's not as powerful as a regular tornado, but it raises up a huge cloud of dust and can cause damage to manmade structures. Pretty much the same as a Mac truck.

"Looks like we're already gonna be eatin' some dust," noted Fred. Getting back into his tough cowboy demeanor, he added, "Which means we're liable to get a powerful thirst a'fore this ride's done! Reckon we ought'a find us the nearest saloon after this dust-devil's gone by, and grab us a couple tall glasses 'a cactus juice!"

"Darn tootin'!"

Barney's own tough demeanor dissolved into confusion. "Vhat does 'tootin' haf to do vith cowboys anyvay? Vhat precisely are they 'tootin'?"

"Their own horns, mostly."

As the dust cloud came closer, a thin dark line could be seen in the middle of it, and a thunderous noise began to be heard. "That's no dust-devil!" Fred exclaimed. "That's a stampede!"

"Thee cows are headed for thee dude ranch!" cried Barney. "Ve haf to stop them!"

"You said it, pardner!" answered Fred, and he and Barney galloped off - well, their _horses_ galloped off and they rode on them - toward the thundering herd.

"You just said we heard a thundering noise," said Fred. "No need to repeat it!"

Wise-ass!

"Who are you talking to!?" demanded Barney.

"Never mind, Barney! We gotta dude ranch to save!"

Fred then realized what he was saying. "What am I saying!?"

Okay, maybe he _didn't_ realize.

"Shut up!" To Barney, he exclaimed, "How're we gonna stop a whole herd of charging cattle!? And don't say by taking away their credit cards!"

"By heading them off at thee pass!?"

"_What_ pass!?"

"Vell, ve got to head them off at _some_theeng!"

"Let's just head 'em off! We'll figure out where when we get there!"

They sped toward the herd as fast as their horses would carry them. They began waving their hats vigorously at the herd and yelling to get their attention. Once accomplished, they began to lead the herd away from the ranch. Their plan was working perfectly until Fred's saddle came unbuckled from his horse and he fell to the ground with a loud thump, saddle and all. Turning around toward the stampede, his eyes widened to golf-ball-size, and he screamed and ran after Barney at a speed that would make the Flash look like a snail with a walker, which unfortunately was just a tad slower than the lead bull. Just as it caught up with him, it bowed its head under Fred's bottom and catapulted him into the air, landing him on the back of Barney's horse.

Barney did a double-take when he saw Fred, and realized that their plan to save the dude ranch was coming unhitched. By some strange coincidence, Barney's saddle came unhitched just then and he began to slide off. Just in time, Fred caught the end of his saddle strap. Unfortunately, Barney was already on the ground, still hanging on to the saddle. Now he was being dragged along the ground just to the right rear of his horse by his own saddle, with Fred hanging on for dear life on the horse's back, and he was slowly sliding down it. In addition, the friction from Barney's body slowed his horse down, allowing the stampede to catch up.

Thinking quickly, Fred tried to stop himself from falling off by wrapping his legs around the horse's neck. This turned out to be a huge mistake, for the horse reared up from the sudden pressure and threw Fred off. Barney managed to grab the horse's tail as his saddle's link to the horse was finally broken, and he continued being dragged along like a loose muffler. Fred did manage to land safely - on the back of the lead bull, facing backwards.

"You got a funny idea about what's safe!" he shouted.

To make things stranger, Fred saw his horse catching up to the bull from behind. The herd had apparently caught up with him during all the confusion and was now running right alongside the cattle. His horse thoroughly soaked his head with a large raspberry, which Fred reciprocated with extreme annoyance.

Meanwhile, Barney's horse slowed even more due to his friction with the ground, and Barney was trying desperately to scramble up the horse's back to avoid the cattle's hooves. Unfortunately, he accidentally kicked the horse's hind legs, and the horse violently kicked him back. He landed on the back of another bull running right alongside Fred's bull. Well, actually he didn't land on its back. His trajectory would have placed him in front of the bull, but just in time, he grabbed the bull by the horns and hung on to its face. Fred managed to climb back onto his horse with some difficulty, and a lot of complaining from the horse, and tried to regain the lead over the stampede.

By now, the ranch was no longer threatened. Somehow, Fred and Barney's totally chaotic efforts had actually steered the steers successfully away from it. Under normal circumstances, they could now just ride away from the herd with little to worry about, but of course, circumstances were not exactly normal. (Unquestionably the understatement of this entire stupid novel.) Then Barney had an idea. He attempted to pull his bull along faster so they would catch up to his horse, so he could climb on and ride away. Suddenly, the bull snorted at him. Reacting by pure reflex, Barney pulled his hands to his face in major disgust, forgetting that his hands were the only thing attaching him to the bull. He fell right down into the sea of cattle. Fred saw this, panicked with the horror of it all, and immediately lost his balance on his saddle-less horse. He slid down its side, and didn't regain his grip until he was practically underneath it. The resulting jolt caused the horse to gallop out of the stampede and back toward the ranch, specifically toward a watering trough with a hitching post. The horse leaped over the post and trough easily, but Fred's vest got caught on a nail, and he was pulled out from under his horse to land right in the watering trough.

Fred slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position as his horse slowly returned. "Any chance you're one of those faithful Western horses who always helps their master out of a jam?"

"Only a fat one."

"Har har _ha-a-ar_-dee har har!" Fred retorted as he stood up and wrung out his shirt. Suddenly he snapped, "Wait a minute, is that a crack about my weight!?"

"No, it's a crack in my trough from where you landed in it!" Fred could now see the water level was dropping rapidly as it leaked out through fresh cracks at the bottom of the trough.

"Ah, go soak your head!" growled Fred.

"In _what_?"

Fred then saw a human form lying on the ground in the distance, where the cattle had raced past the ranch. Realizing it was Barney, he leaped out of the trough and raced toward him. Barney was just picking himself up after being trampled by hundreds of cows and bulls. His cowboy duds were in tatters, his face was black and blue and staring into space like that was where his brain was, his hair looked like a giant used Brillo pad, and he staggered like a man who had ten too many drinks and threw up eleven.

"Barney! You okay!?" cried Fred.

"Da, fine. How've you been?" he replied, weakly, with an extremely dazed look.

Fred hesitated. "Barney?" he asked with less urgency and more puzzlement. "How do you feel?"

"Da, fine. How've you been?"

Just then Weird Bill came running out. "You pardners all right?" he called to them.

"Da, fine. How've you been?"

"C'mon, Barn!" pleaded Fred, shaking Barney. "Snap out of it!"

Barney's expression slowly returned to semi-normal. "Huh? Who? Wha? Fred?" he stammered. As he finally regained full consciousness, he stared at Fred. "Do all Americans take baths vith their clothes on?"

"Never mind! Do you realize you've just been run over by hundreds of heads of cattle?!"

"They felt more like hooves to me."

"I'm glad yer all right," Bill continued, "but somethin's happ'ned. Ah've been robbed."

"Robbed?" Fred turned to Bill. "Of what?"

"A large diamond, mah fam'ly's pride an' joy." Bill explained, "In 1850, my fam'ly came to the west to seek its fortune in minin'. Part o' that fortune we did find was a king's ransom in diamonds. With the money we got for most of them, we earned a respectable livin', and eventually I built this dude ranch. The largest diamond we kept as a fam'ly heirloom, and now it's been rustled!"

"Diamonds?" Barney asked. "I thought every-vun mined gold in thee vest."

"Yeah. Jus' my fam'ly's luck, we found diamonds, silver, platinum, rubies, everythin' _but_ gold."

"Tough break," replied Fred. Do I even _need_ to say it was sarcasm?

Barney had a thought. "Do you theenk thees stampede vas dee-leeberately caused to deestract us so some-vun could sneak eento thee ranch and steal thee diamond?"

"What makes you think that?" asked Fred.

"I saw eet een an old Vestern!"

Then Fred had a thought. "If we follow the stampede's path back to where it started, maybe we'll find whoever or whatever started it!"

"_Now_ ve're getting eento thee spirit of thee Vest!" grinned Barney.

"Well, you fellers do what ye like," said Bill, "Ah'm gonna call th' sheriff."

"Vhat are you going to call heem?"

Fred impatiently yanked Barney's shoulder, snapped, "Come on!" and dragged him back to their horses while Bill went back to the ranch house.

The two tenderfeet - actually, after what they just went through with the stampede, their whole bodies were tender - rode far into the desert. Fortunately, the tracks of hundreds of cows are pretty easy to follow, so the boys had little trouble finding where the stampede started, about eight kilometers (five miles to you non-metric people) southwest of the dude ranch. There were numerous tire tracks leading to and away from the site. "Some-vun _deed_ cause thee stampede," Barney realized. "Let's follow those tracks!"

They followed them for kilometers (or miles). All the while, the sun climbed higher and the air got hotter by the minute. The ride seemed to take forever, and the boys were getting tired and hot and dusty.

Finally Barney said, "Fred, can ve stop and rest for a mee-nute? Ve've been riding for hours, and I am not used to thees kind of heat. You never see Russia get thees hot."

Fred turned to him and "hmmph"ed disdainfully. "This ain't Russia, Barney, this is the Wild West! Wild, untamed, unforgiving, _harsh_! It's not all fun and adventure, you know, it takes a lot of hard work and suffering to make it out here! You've been dreaming about riding the range and living the adventure, but get a little sun and dust in your eyes, and a dose of desert heat and you fold up like an old map!? There might be endless land and skies out here, but there's no room for _tenderfeet_!"

Barney felt ashamed. As he bowed his head in shame, Fred continued, "Look at me! You don't see me complaining about the heat! I'm tough! I don't even use AC in the summer! Dust, hah! I get more dust in my face than this cleaning out my garage! And compared to what I've been through working for Rupert - carrying heavy equipment, hauling props, chasing down stories, shielding the other guys from audiences throwing rotten fruit - this is a walk in the park! I thrive on hardships! I enjoy roughing it! I live for challenges!"

Just as Fred finished, Barney's bowed head noticed a small device sticking out of Fred's saddle bag. He rode up closer and reached for it. "Vhat's thees?"

"Don't touch that!" Fred exclaimed half a second too late. Barney pulled it out, and in doing so pulled several thin hoses out from all over the inside of Fred's outfit. Barney felt cool air coming from out of them, and his shame immediately turned to anger. "A meeniature air condeetioner!?"

Fred was caught red-handed. "Well, I said the heat didn't bother me."

"You kossack! You call me a tenderfoot, and your own feet are like feathers themselfs! You ought to bee sent to Sibeeria!"

Now that the full force of the desert heat was hitting him, Fred wiped his now sweating brow and muttered, "That'd feel really good right now."

He then noticed something in the distance. "Hey, I think we've found the rustlers!"

He and Barney rode closer. While still a good distance away, they stopped near a rocky outcropping overlooking a valley. They dismounted and peeked over the outcropping to get a bird's eye view of the rustlers' encampment, two large tents with three pickup trucks parked nearby. Seven people walked around the campsite doing things the boys couldn't specify from the distance. "We're too far away," Fred whispered. "We gotta get closer."

"Agreed," Barney whispered back. "Ve'll climb down to those rocks below us. Ve must bee as qviet as church mice."

Fred took his first step toward making his way down. It was right onto a loose rock. It slipped out from under him and tumbled down the outcropping, and Fred lost his footing and started to slide down after it. He grabbed Barney for support, and instead started to pull him down with him. Barney flailed his arms and happened to grab his horse's lead, and the horse was caught unawares and lost her footing. And then _Fred's_ horse bit her tail to try to stop her falling, and guess what? Within moments, both boys and both horses were tumbling down the hill with a lot more noise than any of them intended. Needless to say, the people they were spying on were alerted to the racket and watched the klutzy cowhands and their slippery steeds fall head-over-hiney-over-haunches all the way to the base of the outcropping.

The boys untangled themselves from each other and picked themselves up to sitting positions to look the people over. The people included five men and two women, all dressed in cowpoke outfits, all looking pretty peeved. Then one of them picked up a large iron bar. Following his example, the others picked up assorted heavy tools capable of doing serious injury to a human being. They advanced on the heap of fallen spies with obviously hostile intent.

"I wonder if Roy Rogers ever had days like this?" Fred asked to no one in particular.

"Trigger never did," muttered his horse.

"Ah, shaddap."

Barney glared at his horse. "And vhat do _you_ haf to say for yourself?"

His horse answered by bowing her head and shaking it so hard, _it fell off_! It was a costume horse head, underneath which was the head of a golden-furred collie! She then uttered several short, embittered barks that roughly translated as, "The things I have to do to make a living these days!"

**Weird Bill and his co-workers, and the rustlers you're going to meet properly later, are copyright to me. The names of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble/Ruble are copyright to Hanna-Barbera and Warner Brothers, with thanks to Alan Reed and Mel Blanc for creating their voices. Fred's talkative horse is copyright to Filmways and MGM Television, with thanks to Allan Lane for the voice, and to a real-life horse - of course, of course - named Bamboo Harvester . . . "Bamboo" Harvester?**  
"I used to work on a farm in China, growing food for pandas."  
**. . . . Ri-i-i-i-ight. And Barney's, uh . . "horse" . . is copyright to the estate of Rudd Weatherwax, brought to life by a long line of dog actors trained by Weatherwax, and in this story by the voice of an R.C. Gumby employee who's convinced they're also leading a dog's life.**  
"Bark! Bark-bark!" [Translation: "That's not funny!"]  
_Is she doin' anything after the novel?_ thought Digger with increasingly rapid panting.  
**Down, boy.**


	12. The Scene Stealers

**Chapter 11**  
**What R.C. Gumby Productions Should Have Filed For a Long Time Ago, or**  
**The Scene Stealers**

The odds of it occurring were less than winning the Powerball jackpot three months in a row, but Rupert had to admit Fred was right: It _had_ taken no more than ten minutes to search through the entire shipment of donations. The missing communicorder wasn't there.

Robert mentally scratched one possible destination off the list, and then mentally re-ran the events of the day. It started with him, Fred, and Digger materializing in downtown Houston to search for Myran's wayward communicorder at a local charity stop. They learned the shipment was sent to the Johnson Space Center by mistake, while the shop got the Space Center's experimental robot. He, Fred, and Digger brought the Robot to the Space Center, where, in another odds-defying event, Fred met his Russian friend Barney and agreed to help him temporarily trade his Russian boots for cowboy boots. After a quick lunch, Rupert reluctantly saw them off in a rental car toward west Texas, then returned to the Space Center and . . Like it said in the previous paragraph, he didn't find it.

At the same time, the Robot's performance tests were on hold until the senior roboticist returned from a conference, so he/it/whatever had nothing to do but hang around the Visitors' Center. Neither did Rupert or Digger, since Rupert got no answer from Myran when he called to have him beam them back home, so they hooked up with the Robot again and did the full tour. To its credit, the Robot was a fountain of information on all the exhibits and the technology behind them. To its anti-credit, the fountain never knew when to turn off, and the delivery was just as monotonous. Rupert struggled to stay awake, desperately keeping his mind occupied with topics for upcoming webcasts and how many more soda cans they'd have to return to pay for them.

Digger didn't bother to stay awake, and his dreams kept his mind occupied with . . . well, I can't really say in this novel, except that it involves a French poodle in heat.

Mercifully, the tour finally ended. Coincidentally, it ended at suppertime, so Rupert took them to the Center's snack bar. He bought a cheap hot dog-onion rings combo. Digger finally woke up, and Rupert talked the cook into lightly grilling three plain hamburger patties for the beagle.

"You know," said Rupert, "for a fifth-class snack bar with more grease and food on the walls than on the griddle, this is a pretty good hot dog. Tell you the truth, compared to most others I've had, I'd say it's better."

"Parka-a-ay!" crowed the tub of margarine on the table.  
"I said 'better', not butter!"

"Oh, sorry."

"S'okay."

"S'arright."

With a nonplussed swing of its simulated head, the Robot asked, "Does it not surprise you that this tub of margarine spoke to you?"

"Nah, my grandmother used the same margarine once to make chocolate chip cookies."

"How did they taste?"

"I don't know. They ran off the counter and escaped through a mouse hole while they were left out to cool."

Rupert was about to take another large bite of his hot dog, but he hesitated, and after several moments he finally said, "You know, it's kind'a weird sitting here eating while you're just standing there staring at me . . or _scanning_ at me, or whatever."

"I am not designed to sit or eat. Even if I were, there is a high probability that the forms of sustenance available in this establishment would be as harmful to my systems as they are to yours."

"So what, if this was a salad bar, you could at least pretend to eat?"

The kitchen door exploded as a maniac with a white suit and a cleaver and a psychotic grimace shot out into the dining area and skidded to a halt right at their table. "Who said that!?" he roared. "Who said the _S-word_!?"

"Nobody in _this_ novel, Buster!" replied Rupert. "This is PG!"

"Not _that_ one, you rotten little vegan-lover! The one with green . . _leaves_," His whole face contorted with disgust as he said that word, and the next, "and other . . _vegetables_!"

"Leaves and vegetables, beginning with the letter S . ." mused the Robot. "Do you mean, 'salad'?"

"THAT'S IT!" The cook flew into a raging fit. "_That's a dirty word around here! I sell hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken patty sandwiches, french fries, all manner of greasy, disgusting fast food! I don't cook, cut up, touch, or even LOOK at anything that used to be a plant! Do you know what I do to anyone who even THINKS the S-word!?_"

"That does not compute. Unless you have telepathic capabilities, how could you possibly know when someone is thinking of the word 'salad'?"

"_SALAD!? AAAAAAAAHHH!_" The crazed cook reared back with his cleaver to swing it right at the Robot's "head". Rupert stood up and pinched the base of the cook's neck, and he instantly fell unconscious.

"Fascinating," commented the Robot.

Rupert raised an eyebrow and replied, "Shouldn't that be my line?"

The rest of dinner passed without incident -

"So far, but if I have any more of those onion rings..." muttered Robert, feeling a minor skirmish flaring up in his gut.

... You just _couldn't_ keep bathroom humor out of this story, could you!? Don't you know there might be kids reading this!?

"Yeah, that's what they think is funny."

... And while this weird exchange was going on, Rupert's party left the snack bar and wandered toward one of the larger exhibit areas. That's where Rupert noticed a crowd gathering and he asked, "What's going on here?"

"This is the exhibit of innovations in satellite and space probe technology," replied the Robot. "According to the schedule, Dr. Eileen Overtoofar is to give a presentation on a new type of CCD."

"Ladies and gentlemen -" Dr. Overtoofar began.

The Robot uttered a loud, electronic equivalent of the sound of a throat clearing.

" - and . . whatever you are . . today we unveil the latest in 3-D imaging technology for scientific exploration." She held up a tiny CCD no bigger than a thumbnail and declared, "I give you . . the Optical Holographic Scanning Holistic Imager Two-thousand!"

Rupert turned to the Robot. "O.H.S.H.I...?" He couldn't bring himself to finish the acronym.

"It is a working title."

Overtoofar continued as if she didn't realize it herself, "It was originally developed five years ago by the military for advanced, high-resolution surveillance of Earth's surface, but has now been made available to the scientific sector. Using the latest in micro-miniaturization processes, this single CCD unit not only holds many times the pixel density of all previous models, but within each pixel are holographic sensors interspersed with the standard photosensors, enabling the unit to compute and store three-dimensional information about its target! With only a handful of these CCD's covering an area no larger than the palm of a baby's hand, they can resolve objects on the Earth's surface as small as two centimeters wide from a distance equivalent to geostationary orbit."

"That explains the persistent feeling I've had of being watched," muttered Rupert. He whispered to the Robot, "Let me guess, the military made it available only because they now have surveillance tech that's even more sensitive?"

"Negative. NASA won the technology in a lawsuit when an Air Force general used a surveillance satellite to cheat in a poker game against a deputy NASA chief."

The doctor put the CCD down on her podium, picked up a wireless mouse, and continued. "Now, to demonstrate its capabilities, the company that manufactured it, I. C. U. Imaging, in cooperation with Fly-by-Night Industries, has prepared this slideshow. Taken by a newly-launched geostationary satellite equipped with the new Imager, it shows an isolated mountainous region of Southeastern Europe with enough scenic details to show the incredible 3-D resolution possible. The high resolution does mean the slideshow has a very big file size, so I have it on a DVD-ROM. It's already loaded on the computer. Correction, it's being removed from the computer by two creepy men, and they are now jumping off the stage and pushing their way through the crowd. STOP THIEVES!"

Overtoofar yelled that last statement so loud that everyone in the vicinity turned to look. It was so loud in fact that Digger woke up again, just in time to see two men who did indeed look really creepy push their way out of the crowd and run toward the nearest exit. One was bald and quite short with evil-looking eyes, a long twisted chin, and an even more twisted look on his face like he was the front-runner for Mad Scientist of the Year. The other man was much larger, almost brutish, and the look on his face was much duller, as if he was just along for the ride.

They didn't get far before three security guards blocked their path. "Stay where you are!" one of them barked.

"No, you stay where you are!" challenged the short crook in a voice both gravelly and weaselly. He whipped a small spray bottle out of his coat and sneered, "Simon says... _sniff_!"

He sprayed a large puff of green mist right at the three guards. They took one sniff and immediately broke down into uncontrolled tears and sobs.

With an evil laugh, Simon crowed, "My tear gas works perfectly!"

"Look out, boss, here come some more!" his massive partner warned, looking at three more guards rushing up behind them. He picked up a nearby display, a mock-up of a lunar lander that must've weighted at least three hundred pounds, and hurled it at the guards. It smashed into a million pieces, stopping them in their tracks long enough for Simon to spin around and get a bead on them with his sprayer. "Simon says... _sniff_!"

He sprayed more of his evil potion at these guards, and they too started crying helplessly. Simon waved his sprayer around toward the rest of the crowd and warned, "And unless the rest of you want this to be the saddest day of your life, Simon says... _stand still_!"

"Negative!" shouted the Robot as it rolled toward the crooks. "Your mood-altering compound will not affect my central processor!"

"But I bet _this_ will!" shouted the big crook as he hefted another massive display - a two hundred pound iron meteorite - and threw it at the Robot. The Robot's caught it in his mechanical arms, which were designed to be much stronger than human arms, but the momentum sent it rolling backwards into a support column.

"Good work, Cad," said the short-order crook. "Now let's go!" Still holding his sprayer aimed at the crowd, Simon quickly backed toward the exit with Cad covering him, until they were clear to sprint through and escape outside.

The Robot finished replacing the meteorite and turned its attention to the exit. "I have positive identification of the two felons from my memory banks," it announced. "In addition to the slideshow Dr. Overtoofar was going to present, the disc contains schematics for the new CCD. Probability that the two felons intend to make unlawful use of the technology, 98.2%. My course of action is clear: I must prevent them from escaping with the disc! Rupert Gumby, your assistance will be useful! . . . . Rupert Gumby!"

Rupert didn't hear the Robot; he was in an increasingly heated argument on his cell phone. "Yeah, you heard right - _Simon Bar Sinister_ and _Cad_! What the hell are they doing in my novel!? . . . . No, I did _not_ plot this! I'm trying to do a tribute to classic TV characters! These are _cartoon_ characters - and two of the cheesiest ones there ever were, to boot! . . . . No, Fred is _not_ a cartoon character, he's a _descendant_ of a cartoon - I mean - . . and neither is Barney! Not like -!

". . . . Okay, fine, cartoon characters are on the table, but no more going off-script, got it!? So, what, is Underdog at least gonna pound their sorry asses into the pavement before the end of this chapter? . . . . Whaddaya mean, we can't have him? . . . . Insurance premiums? . . . . _How_ much!? . . . . Screw that, we'll handle this ourselves!"

Rupert hung up. After a moment's thought, he looked at his faithful beagle Digger and asked, "How do you feel about wearing red long johns and a blue cape?"

Digger replied with a menacing growl.

"Just asking."

Rupert and the Robot raced out the same exit the crooks took, as fast as the Robot's wheels could roll him, and as fast as Rupert could run with an elderly beagle in his arms. "My sensors indicate the thieves are moving around the maintenance garage toward a small parking lot reserved for service vehicles."

Rupert's small pursuit party got there just in time to see Simon and Cad reach a dirty brown sedan with an insignia saying, "This is a service vehicle for the Johnson Space Center" crudely drawn on the driver's-side door in crayon. "Halt! Or I will destroy!" announced the Robot.

Simon and Cad ignored it and shut themselves in the car. The Robot extended its arms, and suddenly a massive bolt of electricity arced between its claws and shot out toward the rear of the car. A small explosion went off on the trunk lid, but otherwise caused little visible damage. Almost as if in retaliation, the car's engine let out a massive backfire, enveloping the Robot, Rupert, and Digger in a huge belch of smoke and sparks just as the car revved up and sped away.

Desperately waving the smoke clear, Rupert could see the car receding quickly. Thinking even more quickly, he whipped a small metal button from his pocket and threw it onto the car's trunk, where it magnetically stuck.

"Stand back!" shouted the Robot. A moment later, the sound of a powerful fan started up, and a blast of wind from its grill quickly blew away the rest of the smoke.

"What was that?" asked Rupert.

"Part of my function is to intake air samples to test for compatibility with human life. In this instance, I reversed the air flow and set it to maximum pressure. However, we are now unable to apprehend the thieves. They are already moving beyond the range of my sensors."

"I've got something better," he told the Robot. "I threw a magnetic homing device onto their car. It's got a range of at least twenty miles and can transmit for up to three weeks on a full battery charge."

"Where did you acquire such advanced technology?"

"A going-out-of-business sale at a Radio Shack."

"Interesting, but pointless. The thieves are moving much too fast to apprehend, even knowing their location."

"Wait, did you say we're near the maintenance garage?"

"Affirmative."

"That's where they took the Gumby-Mobile to get fixed! We can take that!"

Rupert hefted Digger closer and turned and ran toward the garage. The Robot lingered behind just long enough to moan to no one in particular, "Me and my big vocal synthesizer."

Meanwhile, Simon and Cad sped down the street. "Whew, that was a close one, boss!" gasped Cad from the driver's seat. "That big robot almost fried us extra crispy!"

In the passenger seat, Simon was fit to be tied. "How dare that meddlesome little man and his mechanical monster interfere! If any little man is going to unleash a destructive robot upon the world, it should be _me_!"

"Calm down, boss, at least we got away with the disc. A perfect heist!"

Cad's attempt to soothe his boss' anger had the opposite effect. "Perfect heist!? A man of my genius, reduced to petty theft! Cad sighed, knowing he was in for yet another rant about the same old chestnut. "I was once the biggest man in the world!" Simon ranted. "The _richest_ man! The most _powerful_ man! And now!? A common thief working for a fool who thinks _he_ can rule the world! But I'll show him! Nobody's going to rule the world but me!"

_How many times can Simon ram his plan to rule the world down everybody's throats before he finally realizes everybody gets the picture already!? thought Cad. He tried changing the subject: "But in the meantime, I hope we got enough gas to get outta the city!"_

"Leave the city now!? Abandon all of my equipment!?"

"Things ain't like the old days, boss. The local police can have every security camera in the city following us with one click of an internet browser. If we stop at the hideout, they'll have the whole place surrounded inside of two minutes!"

To Cad's surprise, Simon laughed. "Not to worry! I haven't stayed in the 60's all this time. I know how to turn the world's entire internet against them!"

"The internet? How?"

With another evil laugh, Simon replied, "Just drive to the hideout, Cad. You'll see!"

The Gumby-Mobile sped down one of Houston's expressways, Rupert in the driver's seat, Digger in the front basket, and the Robot dragged behind on the tow rope. The direction finder built into the handlebars' console had the homing device's signal loud and clear, keeping them right on course.

Navigating Houston traffic along their course... that was a different story.

"ROAD-HOG!" screamed Rupert as yet another SUV cut him off with a sudden lane change.

"Danger, Rupert Gumby! Danger!" shouted the Robot as it waved its arms frantically as it swung wildly back and forth at the end of its tether.

"And no back seat driving!" Rupert shouted back.

"That does not compute! To be a back seat driver, one must be sitting in a back seat!"

"Who asked you!?"

"WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING!"

Rupert turns his eyes front just in time to swerve violently around a car doing only twenty in the express lane. Almost immediately, the direction finder instructed him to take the exit coming up in about 0.4 seconds. Wrenching the handlebars, Rupert made an instant right-angle turn, crossing two lanes of traffic, and shot straight onto the exit ramp and immediately halved his speed in anticipation of the upcoming stop light. This caused the Robot to nearly crack the whip, arcing him around in a half circle at full speed, so that by the time the Gumby-Mobile braked to a stop at the light, Rupert was surprised to find the Robot was now in front of him.

"How am I supposed to see where I'm going now!?" demanded Rupert. "You know how unsafe this is!?"

With the unnatural calm that only an automaton can manage, the Robot replied, "If you do not desire a back seat driver, how about a psychiatrist?"

The direction finder finally brought them to where Simon and Cad's car was parked, right outside their hideout somewhere in one of Houston's suburbs.

"_This_ is Simon Bar Sinister's hideout?" voice Rupert. "Looks more like Count Dracula's hideout!" The remark was appropriate; the building looked for all the world like a haunted house, and there was even an anomalous dark cloud hanging right over it in an otherwise sunny sky. If there had been bats flying around the tall spire in the middle of the roof, the picture would have been complete.

Rupert, Digger, and the Robot crept around the side of the house - Well, Rupert crept, the Robot trundled on his wheels, and Digger sort of... waddled - and all of them had to skirt around the piles of old junk scattered around. Rupert found one bare spot against the wall to prop up his bike, and close by they found a side door. It was locked, so they peered in through the door's window and saw the two crooks putting the disc inside a black valise and going into the back room.

"We've got to get inside and find out what their up to," said Rupert. So saying, he picked a piece of wire up from the ground and tried to pick the lock with it. No good, the door stayed locked. Digger, meanwhile, slowly scratched at the doormat. "What is it, Digger?" asked Rupert. When he saw Digger's scratching, he sighed and started scratching Digger's back, while the Robot went over to a pile of junk and selected a good-sized crowbar. Unfortunately, it failed to pry the door open. Finishing his scratching chore, Rupert tried to unscrew the door hinges with an old screwdriver. They were too rusted to come loose.

All the while, Digger continued to scratch at the doormat. "My encyclopedia of animal behavior suggests that Digger has to relieve himself of bodily waste," suggested the Robot.

Rupert pointed to a dirty old toilet and said, "Pee to your heart's content, Digger."

"Is Digger familiar with the proper use of a toilet?" asked the Robot.

"Myran's been giving him lessons. He has a theory that dogs are more intelligent than humans give them credit for."

"A _pet_ theory?"

Rupert gave the Robot a strange look. "I thought robots didn't do puns."

"I am programmed for multiple forms of interaction with humans."

"Well, interrupt this program and help me get the door open!"

Rupert held up a pair of rusty hacksaw blades he just picked up, put one in the Robot's claw, and they both tried to saw through the door bolts. Both blades snapped after just a few tries.

"Stand back," said the Robot. "I will blast through the door." The Robot extended both claws toward the door, and a visible, intense charge of electricity began building between his claws.

"No!" snapped Rupert as he shoved the Robot aside. "You'll make too much noise!"

Digger was still scratching at the doormat. "What _is_ it, Digger!?" Exasperated, Rupert bent down to Digger's level. "What's so special about this doormat?" He looked at it, and for the first time noticed a small bulge in the middle of it. He lifted it up, and both he and the Robot stared, half-amazed and half-witted.

There was a key hidden under the mat.

"It would appear that Myran's pet theory is correct," observed the Robot. "Perhaps dogs are even more intelligent than humans." It looked pointedly at Rupert. "Or at least, _some_ humans."

"Blow it out your recharge socket."

The inside of the house was twice as sinister as the outside, with an inch of dust covering just about everything. Rupert's party crept up to the door to the back room, and this time they were in luck because it was open a crack, allowing them to listen in on the tail end of a conversation between Simon and Cad and a radio voice.

"Are you sure you were not followed by the police?" asked the radio voice in a distinctly foreign accent.

"Of course, we're sure!" insisted Simon. "You can tell our 'leader'" - Simon couldn't quite make himself sound sincere saying it - "that no one will find his secret base with _this_ disc."

"Secret base?" Rupert whispered to the Robot.

"Elementary, my dear Rupert Gumby," the Robot whispered back, "Dr. Overtoofar said the disc contained a high-resolution scan of an isolated mountainous region of Southeastern Europe. The test satellite must have inadvertently imaged the secret base from which Simon and Cad's employers are operating illegally."

"Thank you, Sherlock Holmless," muttered Rupert.

"So what's happening back there?" Cad asked the radio. "How's the Master Plan coming along?"

"It's coming along," the radio answered sharply, clearly implying the two villains shouldn't ask for details. Except then the voice hesitated, and then reluctantly admitted, "Well, except for the acquisition of some vital computer parts. It sounds like our two agents haven't been able to steal them from Agent Maxwell Smart."

Rupert desperately tried to pretend he didn't hear that.

The radio continued, "However, I've just heard that those bunglers did manage to capture Smart's female partner."

"Wow! I've heard how tough she can be," marveled Cad. "She must've put up a terrific fight."

"Actually, it was quite easy, like she's never even had any spy training. And you should've heard the cover story she was using!" The radio voice laughed out loud before saying, "She's calling herself 'Ima Nutt!'"

Rupert's eyes bugged out. _Ima!?_ he thought. _How did Ima get mixed up in this!? And what happened to Gary!? Why would these guys think Ima and Gary are working with Maxwell Smart!? . . . How did I get in a situation where I'm even asking that!?_

"But never mind all that!" snapped the radio voice. "Bring that disc back to base at once!"

Simon visibly had to force himself to be polite as he replied, "Of course. We'll leave for Athens as soon as we're ready. Simon says... over and out!"

"That settles it!" whispered Rupert. "I have to follow them to Athens and find out where they're holding Ima!"

First though, Simon and Cad had more to say, starting with Cad: "But boss, how're we gonna fly out of the country without being picked up by radar or satellites?"

"That's where my plan comes in, Cad. My plan to turn the world's internet against them! With _this_!"

Rupert and the Robot peeked through the cracked door and saw Simon pick up a small box from a lab table.

"Whaddaya got in there, boss?"

"Observe!"

Simon melodramatically opened the box and plucked out what looked like an earthworm, except that it glinted as if made of metal, and every few moments it seemed to crackle with electricity. "This is my computer worm. I made it to crawl inside a computer and wiggle into its memory core. Once there, it eats up every bit of data, every command, every program, until the computer is nothing but a pile of useless junk! Just watch what it can do to this old laptop."

So saying, Simon carried the worm to the old laptop sitting on a nearby lab bench. The laptop was already on, and from the looks of the screen, it was running a slightly outdated operating system. Simon held the worm up to the laptop, and before Rupert's eyes and the Robot's optical sensors, the worm actually squeezed into a USB port and disappeared.

Simon grinned and rubbed his hands together in evil glee, saying, "Any second now...!"

To everyone else's surprise, an image of the electrified worm crawled into view on the desktop, and literally started _eating_ everything on the screen! Icons, the taskbar, the wallpaper, everything!

"Wow, boss, that's not bad! But how does one little worm messing up one computer turn the whole internet against the world?"

With an evil laugh, Simon continued, "It won't be just one little worm for long. Observe!"

Cad, Rupert, and the Robot did observe, and before their eyes, halfway through the worm's digital dinner, it split in half. The tail half quickly grew a new head, and both worms resumed eating. "Once it starts eating the computer's data, its commands, and its programs, it splits into two worms, then four, then eight! On and on! And when they're done with that computer, they will wiggle through the phone lines to other computers on the internet, and eat up their data, _their_ commands, _their_ programs! And from there, they will spread to still more computers, and more, and _more_! Soon, every computer on the internet will be turned into worm food!"

Simon let loose another evil laugh, and then added, "And only I know how to stop the worms before they destroy all the computers on the internet! And if the world wants me to stop them, everyone will have to do what Simon says!"

"But boss, what about our boss back at headquarters?"

"What about him? His computers are on the internet as well! I'll unleash my internet worms through the phone lines to his computers as well! By the time they're done, my evil plan will make worm food of all of his evil plans, and then _I_ will rule the world instead of him!" An even more evil laugh.

_So he's going to double-cross his employer and blackmail the world with a self-replicating electric worm that can infect every computer on the internet_, Rupert summed up in his mind. _And I just summed up in one sentence what took Simon five whole paragraphs to say._

"And now, Cad," sneered Simon, "I will connect the laptop to the internet, so that my worms can spread out and do their dirty work!"

"Wait a minute, boss!" Cad interrupted. "Take a look at the security screen."

Both of them looked toward something out of Rupert's field of view. "Well, well..." muttered Simon with cold amusement. "How very interesting."

A bad feeling suddenly coming over him, Rupert turned away from the door to look in every other direction, until he spotted the camera mounted in a ceiling corner, pointed directly at his party. "Frown," he hissed, "I think we're on candid camera."

"Simon says... _Blast 'em!_"

From several hidden slots on all the walls, machine gun barrels popped out and began shooting. Rupert grabbed Digger and ran down a nearby hallway, closely followed by the Robot, who shouted, "Danger, Rupert Gumby! Danger-!"

"_No kidding!_"

As they ran, more machine guns popped out of the walls and opened fire, driving them from hallway to room to hallway, clearly herding them toward someplace where Simon would have them where he wanted them.

The someplace turned out to be an empty room with steel walls, floor, and ceiling. As soon as they were inside, a steel door slammed shut and sealed them inside.

Moments later, a shutter opened in the ceiling, and Simon and Cad stared down into the room. "Well, my fine gentlemen!" gloated Simon. "Since you were so eager to find my home away from home, I decided to invite you to stay. _Permanently!_" He cackled triumphantly.

"You cad!" exclaimed the Robot.

"No, he Simon!" corrected Cad. "_I_ Cad!"

"You can't keep us here forever, Simon!" retorted Rupert. "It's only a matter of time before the police track you to this place!"

"Not before my worms wiggle through the internet and into all the police computers and surveillance networks! Once there, my worms will eat every bit of data, every command, every program the police need to maintain law and order! I will turn all their computers-!"

"Into worm food!" Rupert interrupted. "I know, I heard you the first time!"

The Robot trundled to the steel door. "Your trap will not contain us, Simon Bar Sinister. I will destroy!" The Robot extended its arms to deliver a massive charge and blow the door right off its hinges. But suddenly:

"Simon says... be worm food!" Simon had another electric worm in his hand, which he tossed down right onto the Robot's back. The worm immediately squeezed in through the join of a service hatch.

The effect on the Robot was almost instantaneous. It started to spasm, its arms gyrated wildly in all directions, and the electricity that was building up between them fizzled and died. "Malfunction!" it exclaimed. "Malfunc - tion-n-n! Circuits invaded-d-d . . . Memory fai-i-i-li-i-ing . . . Da-a-a-nge-e-e-errrr . . . " The Robot slumped over, its arms dangling uselessly, and all its indicator lights faded and flickered like it was having a power failure.

Simon cackled loudly. "Your robot couldn't even vacuum floors now!"

"When I get outta here, I'm gonna stick a vacuum up your butt until I turn you wrong-side out!" shouted Rupert.

"I'm afraid you have more _pressing_ matters to worry about!" Simon took a small remote control from his pocket, sneered, "Simon says... _press_!" and pushed a button.

Which a screech of metal, the far wall of the steel room started moving toward Rupert, Digger, and the Robot. "In a few moments, the walls will press all of you as flat as pancakes!" gloated Simon.

"Are you kidding me!? This has gotta be the oldest death trap idea in the book!"

"I always say, the old ones are the best ones. Ta-ta!" With that parting shot, Simon closed the shutter, sealing the room completely. And the room was getting smaller by the second. Rupert and Digger backed up with the Robot against the near wall with the steel door, but the door was locked tight and the Robot was non-responsive.

"Robot, wake up!" shouted Rupert. "Simon's putting the squeeze on us! Get the lead outta your circuits and blast this door open!"

" . . . Daisy . . . daisy . . . give me your answer true . . " murmured the Robot.

Rupert looked despondently at the approaching wall. "And me with no maple syrup."

**Will Simon Bar Sinister's evil plan succeed? Will his worms really turn the internet against the entire world? And will Rupert, Digger, and the Robot escape from Simon's fiendish trap before they are all pressed as flat as pancakes!? We'll find out in our next exciting episode!**

"No we won't! We're checking in on Jerry and Chip's plot line in the next episode!"

**...Well, when _are_ we going to find out?**

"How should I know!? We've been off script for several pages already!"

**Sorry this chapter's so late. Trying to get them done more quickly, hopefully for the next chapter at least. The Robot is copyright to Irwin Allen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television, with thanks to Dick Tufeld's voice and Bob May's body for bringing him/it to life. Simon Bar Sinister and Cad - and our new narrator - were originally copyright to Total Television and Leonardo Television but now belong to DreamWorks, with thanks to the voices of Allan Swift, Ben Stone, and George S. Irving for bringing them to life. All other characters are copyright to me, with thanks to me and my word processor for bringing them to life.**

**The margarine that talks back to you is copyright to ConAgra Foods, Inc. I don't know who did its voice, but it sounds like a pretty greasy customer.**

"Butt-head!"

**Ah, go stick your tub in a microwave!**


	13. The Airport Connection

**Chapter 12**  
**The Airport Connection, or**  
**Fly Me Away . . Please!**

It could be said that, compared to the timespan of human civilization on Earth, the science of electronics was still in its youth. True, the physics of electronic circuits were largely solved by the end of the nineteenth century, but at the time, these could only be applied on a small scale, and rarely outside the laboratory. Practical electrical power did not come into existence until the beginning of the twentieth century, and the principles of radar and its application in tracking still later. The first artificial satellite wasn't successfully launched into orbit until 1957. In light of these facts, the very existence of a satellite tracking device such as the type that Jerry and Luke were working on undoubtedly represented one of the most advanced technological achievements of the modern world, and their efforts to repair it represented incredible skill and determination on their part.

They might as well have been trying to melt Antarctica with a match.

"I don't know what else to do!" groaned Jerry. "Half the wires are burned clean through, nine whole transistor boards are just melted lumps, and every time we get one circuit repaired, two more fall apart!"

Luke, still hard at work inside the machine, was not one for giving up easily. "You're right. This thing's a total loss."

Okay, what do I know?

Luke suddenly pulled himself out of the machine and went toward the back room. "I'm gonna find out how Bo and Chip're doin'."

Jerry followed him into the back room and saw Luke fiddling with an old-fashioned CB radio. "A CB? Does Bo have one on him?" she asked.

"It's in the jeep." He powered up the old transceiver, coaxed the familiar white noise from it, picked up the speaker, and said, "Humpty ta Dumpty. Humpty ta Dumpty. We got trouble here in River City. The hound dog's fallen off the wall. Come back."

_"First non sequitur in your message: Your name is not Humpty, and mine is not Dumpty,"_ came Chip's staticky reply. _"Second non sequitur -"_

_"Gimme that!"_ snapped Bo. _"Humpty good buddy, you can put the hound dog in the kennel ta rest. We got a lead on our stray duck. Come on down an' we'll fill ya in."_

"Ten-four, good buddy. We gone!" finished Luke, and he hung up the speaker. Turning to Jerry, he said, "We'll use your bike."

Jerry grinned. "You think your jeep is fast? Once I put my hog in fifth gear, we'll be breakin' the sound barrier!"

They didn't actually break the sound barrier, but by the time they pulled into the airport parking lot, Luke could've sworn the wind blew a three-inch layer of skin off his face. "And I still can't believe you made that jump over six lanes of expressway!" he exclaimed.

"Neither can I!" Jerry replied. "The engine's runnin' slower than ever! Must be road salt clogging up the valves."

It was a small airport, chiefly used only for regional flights. Entering the terminal, Jerry started looking around. "Now, where's the coffee shop we're supposed to meet 'em at?"

"I gotta use the rest room first," said Luke.

"Okay, I'll wait here," she replied, referring to a long bench.

Luke went into the nearest lavatory while Jerry sat down, reached into her purse, and took out the end section of her bike's exhaust pipe. She removed it just before they entered the airport to check for the road salt contamination she feared. Sure enough, there was contamination lining the inside, but not road salt. It looked more like oil residue, possibly from having gone too long without engine maintenance. _Damn, I hope I'm not getting senile!_ she thought. She made a mental note to give her ride a full check once all this other business was done, and especially to flush out the accumulated residue. It wasn't too thick just yet, but it looked like it would need a pretty strong solvent. _Maybe some of Joe's coffee,_ she thought. She immediately dismissed the idea. _I just want to dissolve the contamination, not the whole engine block!_

That's when she noticed an old man shuffling up behind the bench. From the looks of him, he might have been about her age, dressed in a long black coat with a black hat and cane, and snow white facial hair. He was quietly mumbling some kind of song to himself in a low, gravelly voice. She couldn't quite make out the words; something about "walnettos", whatever they were.

He came around the end of the bench, and addressed Jerry, "'Scuse me . . mind if I sit down for a minute?"

"Certainly," she offered, moving over just enough to give him room.

He slowly eased himself down onto the bench, letting out a sigh of relief for his old bones and muscles, "Ahh, thank you, my dear."

Jerry went back to her examination of the exhaust pipe, but a few seconds later, the old man muttered, "I wonder, my dear . . . Have you ever seen a moon-gotcha?"

Jerry turned to him. "A what?" she asked.

"A moon-gotcha."

Something seemed familiar about this, and not in a good way. Warily, she replied, "What's that?"

The old man pointed upwards. "See the moon?"

She looked up.

_"Gotcha!"_ He reached around and grabbed her butt!

Jerry shrieked and jumped to her feet. "Why you-!" She grabbed her purse and started pounding him up-side the head with it, until he hauled himself to his feet and shuffled off as fast as his legs could drag him.

"You _better_ run!" she shouted after him. To herself, she muttered, "Lucky he isn't thirty years younger, or I'd _really_ sock it to 'im!"

Luke returned from the men's room and saw Jerry was still in a foul mood. "Somethin' wrong?"

"Only that there are some guys in the world who still don't know the 60's are over!"

As it turned out, it took only a few minutes to find the coffee shop. Bo and Chip were at a table in the far corner. Bo was sipping his second cup of coffee, while Chip was perched on the table with a thin cable running from his arm to an internet jack on the wall.

Jerry was surprised when Luke suddenly stopped her from walking over. "Somethin's wrong!" he hissed in her ear.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at 'em!"

Jerry did for several moments, and finally asked, "What's the matter with 'em?"

"What's the matter with 'em!? Bo's having a second cup of coffee. He _never_ has a second cup of coffee at work!"

"Maybe it's just 'cause the coffee at work is lousy. I swore off it completely after Gary spilled some in Rupert's potted palm, and the whole tree wilted two seconds later."

"Or it might be a lot more serious. Bo and I worked out passwords for each other for just such an occasion."

"What? You actually think he might be an imposter?"

"You can't be too careful in our business! Follow my lead, let me do the talkin'."

Neither of them said a single word as they casually approached the table and sat down. Bo didn't say a word either or even look up from his suspiciously supplementary coffee cup. Chip also remained silent for the entire ten seconds that passed after Luke and Jerry sat down. Finally, Luke broke the silence.

"Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet," he said quietly.

Bo quietly continued. "Eatin' her curds and whey."

Luke again. "Along came a spider, who sat down beside her."

Bo finished with, "And frightened Miss Muffet away."

Jerry stared incredulously. "What kind of passwords do you call those!?"

Bo and Luke stared back at her, then at each other. Finally, Bo said, "Maybe we should'a gone with the woman from Nantucket?"

"Never mind!" snapped Jerry. "What'd you find out?"

"I don't know how," said Bo, "but Chip here has been hackin' into airport radar systems and radio logs all over the country."

Luke let out a slow whistle. "Do you have any idea what they'd do if they traced your hackin' back here!? We're talkin' about a federal offense here!"

"I assure you, my intentions are perfectly benign," replied Chip. "And frankly, the contents of these networks somewhat belies the need for such a level of security."

" . . . If that means what I think it means, are you nuts!?" exclaimed Bo. "The movements of thousands 'a planes over the country's airspace is one of the strongest security matters there is!"

"It is not the positions of aircraft I am referring to, it is the 6,721 audiovisual recordings of domesticated felines I have found embedded within these networks."

" . . . Okay, maybe _they_ ain't."

"Update: 6,722."

"So what about our lost plane?" prompted Jerry.

Chip reported, "46 minutes, 12 seconds ago, the St. Louis Airport filed a report on an unidentified aircraft flying through their airspace, with all available telemetry appended. Its identification signal precisely matches the signal of our aircraft, as Bo provided to me."

"But what good does it do to know where it was almost an hour ago?" asked Luke. "We have to catch it, not just follow it."

"Using the airport's telemetry, I am able to extrapolate the aircraft's heading, with an uncertainty increasing by 50 kilometers for every 400 kilometers of travel distance."

"_If_ Rhoda doesn't try to change course," Jerry pointed out. Then, "Wait, St. Louis? That's where Myran is, maybe he can help us track it."

"How?" asked Bo. "He work for the airport or something?"

"Or something."

As she pulled out her cell phone, Luke asked, "What s your friend doin' in St. Louis? Thought you said you and your pals were local."

"That information is classified," replied Chip.

"'Classified'? You mean we got two top-secret assignments goin' on here?"

"Why not?" said Jerry. "This way saves time."

Bo leaned over to Luke and whispered, "And that's real important when you're her age."

"I heard that!" snapped Jerry. "I may be old, but I ain't deaf yet!"

Her cell phone turned on, she speed-dialed Myran. After several seconds of uninterrupted electronic ringing, she decided, "Myran's not answering. Chip? Can you get him?"

"I have also been attempting to contact him. No response."

"Hope nothing's wrong. I'll try Homer." She speed-dialed again. After slightly fewer seconds of electronic ringing, someone answered this time. "Hello, Homer? It's Jerry."

There was a short burst of static, followed by a nasal electronic voice saying, _"Please deposit $4.55 for the first minute."_

"What? I'm not talking into a pay phone!"

_"Oh sure, that's what they all say!"_ A loud click and a dial tone immediately followed.

Never one to give up easily, Jerry dialed again. "Homer? It's Jerry, are you there?"

_"I don't know, are you there?"_ another voice replied.

This second voice was also unrecognizable. "Who are you?"

_"This is Macy Masem with America's Bottom 40!"_ he announced with a well-trained radio voice. _"It's time to hear the number one song on the list of least favorite songs in the U. S. of A.!"_

"You get off this line right now or you'll be number one on _my_ list! POW!" Another loud click and dial tone sounded. "I'll try Myran again," muttered Jerry. This time, Myran's number got an answer. "Myran? It's Jerry!"

She heard a third unfamiliar voice, and this one didn't even speak English. Jerry brought her phone down to Chip's head. "What language is _this_?"

"Punjabi," offered Chip, "a regional language used in eastern Pakistan." After listening to the full speech before whoever it was hung up, Chip reported, "Curious. The speaker was informing you that a ticket for one regular adult admission is one thousand rupees, while an afternoon matinee ticket is only eight hundred."

"How in the world did I get a Pakistani movie theater!?"

"I hate to say it," replied Luke, "but the backwash from the jet followed by the electric surges when Bo overloaded the console -"

"_You_ overload the console! _I_ just got caught in the blast!"

Luke ignored him and finished telling Jerry, "They must'a scrambled your phone."

"Oh great! Chip, can you fix it?"

"_I_ can fix it," said Bo. He took the phone from her hand, examined it for a few moments, and before Jerry could stop him, he slammed the phone against the nearest wall.

"Try it now," he said, giving it back to her.

Fearing the worst, Jerry told Chip, "Keep trying to call Myran. I'll try Homer." She speed-dialed Homer's number, and to her shock, it got a speedy answer. "Homer?"

To her added shock, she heard Homer's friendly voice loud and clear: _"This better be important or I'll varnish your nostrils together!"_

"Ex-CUSE me!?"

_"... Jerry!?"_

"You wanna try varnishing _my_ nostrils together!? You and what intensive care unit!?"

_"Is that Jerry?"_ came Joe's voice over the phone. _"Tell her we're not here."_

"You've never been all there!" she retorted. "Listen, this is important!"

_"Important enough to interrupt us at a time like this?"_ demanded Homer.

"What's so special about a time like this? Where are you?"

_"Just getting into the elevator going up the St. Louis arch."_

_"And I've seen wastebaskets bigger than this thing!"_ griped Joe.

"What're you doing there?" A momentary hopeful thought later: "Did you find -" A quick glance at Bo and Luke. "- what you're looking for?"

_"... What're we looking for?"_ asked Joe.

Jerry's hopes died a quick death. "You know, the . . . thing! _Myran's_ thing!"

"... Oh, his commu-"

"_Yes, that_ thing!" Jerry quickly cut Joe off before he could blab their secret mission in front of her companions.

_"Don't worry, Myran must've found it,"_ Homer replied. _"He went to the airport to track down the plane that his... _thing_ would've come in on."_

"'_Must_ have'? You don't know!? Did he call to say he found it or not!?"

_"Not yet, but -"_

"But nothing!" She quickly turned to Chip. "Anything?"

"Still negative."

Back to her phone: "Listen, you two! We've been trying to call Myran but he's not answering! You two get out to that airport and see if he's still there, and if not, go find him!"

_"Uh, that may have to wait. Like I said, we're in the St. Louis arch elevator -"_

"Well as soon as you're out, take the next one down and get going!"

_"- and the elevator is really small, and the air vents aren't powerful enough to keep Joe's stink from building up in here."_

"What, you're _gassing_ yourselves!?"

_"Oh no! Joe's used to it, and I took the precaution of wearing a gas mask. Unfortunately, the three other guys crammed in here with us didn't, but they haven't fallen unconscious yet. They're just getting real mad, and now they're pushing up their sleeves, and I'm not sure but I think those big tattoos come from a biker gang . . . I gotta go."_ He quickly hung up.

Jerry stared at her phone as she remarked, "If I weren't so ticked off at 'em, I'd wish I was there."

"Seriously!?" blurted Bo. "The three 'a you against three big tough bikers!?"

"... Why would I need Homer and Joe's help?"

"Jerry," said Chip, "I have additional information available. The San Diego Airport detected the aircraft 5 minutes, 21 seconds ago. It is now departing from the range of their radar, but I have refined my extrapolation of their course to a heading toward Hawaii with a margin of error of only 4.7%."

"Hawaii? Trust Rhoda to pick a garden spot to hijack herself to." To Bo and Luke, she added, "So what do we do now? Contact the Honolulu airport and tell them to make radio contact when it gets there so they can talk her down?"

Bo and Luke were looking at each other, their expressions now worried almost to the edge of panic. "Boys? What's wrong? This ain't so classified you're not even allowed to call Hawaii about it, are you?"

"No, it ain't that," replied Luke. "Chip, given everythin' you learned, how fast would you say the plane's goin'?"

Chip gave him an answer, and Luke's reply was, "That's bad! _Real_ bad!"

"Bad in what way?" demanded Jerry.

"Bad in that the plane probably won't make it to Hawaii!" exclaimed Bo. "With the amount of fuel it had, and if it's keepin' up the speed Chip said, I figure it's only got about an hour 'a fuel left!"

"WHAT!?"

"Well, we never figured someone would try to fly it to Hawaii!" Luke protested.

"What if we radio Honolulu and tell 'em the plane's about to ditch into the ocean!? Will it be close enough for a rescue ship to go after it!?"

"Accessing planetary communications network," said Chip. After a few seconds, he reported, "A strong storm over Hawaii is interfering with radio communications. I am unable to make contact with the proper authorities at this time."

"And there's no other commercial or military airport close enough!" Bo despaired. "Even a supersonic jet wouldn't get there in time!"

He and Luke then noticed Jerry fell silent, as if wrestling with a horrible dilemma in her mind. She was, but not the dilemma of helplessness to save a friend's life, a moral dilemma. Myran's transmat could transport them to Hawaii within seconds, which might give them enough time to warn the authorities, but it would reveal the existence of Myran's incredibly advanced alien technology to two people whom she barely met. She herself had warned Myran before this whole mess started to be careful about keeping it out of the wrong hands. Moreover, would Chip agree to it? With Myran out of contact, the little teddy bear robot was the only one left who could operate the transmat, but he had no emotions to be hurt or worse by the loss of Rhoda, and he was programmed to guard the Star Confederation's secrets from "primitive" cultures like Earth no matter what.

_C'mon, think!_ she thought. _There must be a way to use the transmat without giving away that it's made by aliens, in a way that there was at least a chance Chip would be okay with, _and_ in a way these two characters'll buy!_

An idea came to her. It was a long shot, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Out loud, she said, "Boys, there might be a way to get to Hawaii in time, but it means I'm gonna have to trust you with something. Something you can't tell anybody about, and I mean _anybody_! Not even your superiors!"

"Whaddaya you mean!?" demanded Luke. "If this is anythin' that might affect national security -!"

"This goes _way_ beyond national security!"

"Jerry," said Chip, "I calculate only one available method of reaching Hawaii within the timespan involved, and I cannot -"

"Yes, Chip, that's the only way, and I _have_ to tell them!"

She clamped her hand over Chip's vocal synthesizer and leaned close to Bo and Luke, who in turn leaned closer as she prepared to reveal the most carefully guarded secret she and R. C. Gumby Productions possessed.

"I'm a witch."

" . . . You're a _what_?" gaped Bo.

"You are a _what_?" Chip repeated through Jerry's hand.

"Yup. I'm a witch."

"Get outta here!" scoffed Luke. "How could you be a witch?"

Jerry first looked around to make sure no one else was looking, then leaned close to Chip and the guys again . . . and wiggled her nose.

" . . . Oh!" Bo and Luke exclaimed when they finally got it. "Okay, yeah!" added Bo. Then he looked around, and added, "Wait a minute, nothin' happened here!"

"'Course not!" she replied. "You don't think I'm actually gonna do magic out here in public, do ya?"

"Maybe so, but how's that help us get to Hawaii?" demanded Luke. "Wait, you mean you can... what, teleport us or somethin'?"

"Right, but not from here. I gotta use my special... _stage_ back at our studio."

"What for?"

Jerry shrugged. "Well, some witches gotta use pentagrams, I gotta use a stage." She thumbed Chip. "_And_ Chip. He's my... familiar."

"I would hope that I am familiar to you," he noted. "We have been colleagues for -"

"I thought witches had _cats_, not robot teddy bears!" protested Bo.

"I like to be different." Jerry s patience ran out. "And we gotta move, now!"

"Oh - kay," Bo reluctantly agreed. "You and Chip take your bike, we'll take the jeep!"

Jerry unplugged Chip, and she, Bo, and Luke jumped from the table. "Sure your jeep's souped up enough to keep up with mine?"

Bo grinned. "Twenty bucks says we beat ya there!"

"You're on!"

Twelve minutes, four speeding tickets, and a house with two new doors later, they screamed to a halt at the Gumby home, the jeep halfway up the birch tree on the front lawn, the motorcycle halfway through the garage door (not doorway, door). Frustration clouded Jerry's face as they ran inside, partly because Myran still wasn't answering their calls, and partly because she was out twenty bucks.

Jerry led everyone to the basement and directed Bo and Luke to the transmat stage. "You boys stand over there. We'll join you in a sec', soon as Chip and I - uh, work the right incantation to send us to Hawaii."

"'Incantation'?" Chip repeated to Jerry in a voice low enough that only she could hear.

In an equally low voice, she replied, "I mean, you set the coordinates and the timer so we can get in the transmat with 'em. Hey, what about the storm over Hawaii, will the transmat beam get through that?"

"Electrical and meteorological interference from a lightning storm will have no effect on the transmat beam. However, I find this deception you are perpetrating to not only be unethical but quite distasteful."

"Chip, sooner or later you're gonna have to learn, when it comes to humans, sometimes you gotta tell a little white lie for the greater good. And right now, saving Rhoda's life is the greater good, so get programming!"

Chip hesitated, considering all the pros and cons of the argument against all of his ethical subroutines and his directives of non-interference and technological secrecy with respect to primitive cultures. 31.7 milliseconds later, he programmed the transmat. "Timer set for five seconds . . . _mark_."

Jerry picked him up again and joined Bo and Luke on the transmat stage. "So what happens now?" asked Luke, wary of what Jerry's "spell" was going to do to them.

"Now, we sit back and enjoy the ride!" To reinforce the illusion of magic, when Jerry guessed the five seconds were just about up, she made a great show of wiggling her nose again.

Within moments, the shimmering effect of matter-energy conversion surrounded them, and they disappeared with a whine of energy.

In an instant, the four travelers rematerialized in a forest of palm trees and tropical plants and flowers.

"Hoo-WEE!" shouted Bo. "It really worked!"

"But now do we have enough time to find the nearest base to send out a search time before Rhoda crashes!?" exclaimed Jerry.

Luke, on the other hand, noticed something wrong. "Wait a minute, I thought Chip said there was a big storm over Hawaii. The sky here is crystal clear."

Bo turned to Jerry. "You sure you sent us to the right island?"

"I thought I did!" She glanced at Chip. "At least, I thought my familiar focused my magic for getting us to the right island. Chip?"

"Analyzing discrepancy." After a few seconds, Chip reported, "I must report an error in my calculations. It appears the shock from your aircraft's sudden departure randomized several data clusters in my memory, including those pertaining to Earth's geography."

"We're _not_ on the right island! So which one _are_ we on!?"

Just then, someone emerged from the nearby undergrowth, a young man dressed in a bright red shirt, blue jeans, and a sailor hat. He looked at them with startled surprise that quickly escalated to high anxiety, then he raced back into the forest yelling, "Skipper! _SKIPPER!_"

Jerry muttered to no one in particular, "Why didn't I see that coming?"

**Jerry Atreck and Chip are copyright to me, with thanks to me for bringing them to life, although this time Jerry was pretending to be a character copyright to Screen Gems and Sony Pictures and brought to life by Elizabeth Montgomery. The characters of Bo and Luke Duke are copyright to Warner Bros. Television, with thanks again to John Schneider and Tom Wopat for bringing them to life.**

**The dirty old man bucking for a sexual harassment suit is copyright to George Schlatter-Ed Friendly Productions, Romart Inc., and SFM Entertainment, with thanks to Arte Johnson for bringing him to life (and death, if Jerry gets a hold of him again). The brief cameo at the end of this chapter is copyright to United Artists Television and Warner Bros. Television Distribution, and if you don't know who _he_ is, you must've been living on an uncharted desert isle for the last fifty years.**

_"I'm the head writer for R. C. Gumby Productions! Please, stop me before I steal again!"_


	14. More Haunted House Hang-Ups

**Chapter 13**  
**More Haunted House Hang-Ups, or**  
**Deja Boo**

Phil, Ab, and Feathers brought his damaged car to a service station for a repair assessment. That was three hours earlier, and still no word from any of the mechanics, and it was well past lunchtime. Every magazine dated back to the previous decade and had their crossword puzzles already filled, and the only other two men in the waiting room refused to change the TV channel away from the All-Boxing Network.

Suspecting the two men wouldn't appreciate the more advanced manifestations of his mental disciplines, Phil only meditated in a second-level state, deep enough to shut out all unnecessary distractions but not enough to levitate. Ab kept her mind occupied in the children's corner, trying to fit a four-piece jigsaw puzzle together. Feathers napped in a nest she made earlier by gleefully shredding an old bird-hunting magazine. At first, the service center staff had refused to even let her inside. Feathers responded by citing the cold temperature outside. They responded that their No Pets Allowed rule had no exceptions. She responded by quoting PETA's phone number from memory. They let her inside.

Unfortunately, Phil's meditation was interrupted by one of the basest of earthly forces, one that even the most advanced masters of spiritual enlightenment couldn't ignore forever: the body's need for food. Reluctantly returning to reality, Phil told a lady at the counter that he noticed a Scandinavian restaurant next door when they arrived, and was there time for him to step out briefly and bring back lunch? She was fine with that, and ten minutes later, Phil was back with three takeout orders of potato soup. Feathers woke up and eagerly dug into hers. Phil did the same, pausing only to give Ab assistance when he realized she didn't know how to remove the plastic cover.

The soup was Finnish... finished by the time the chief mechanic finally came out. "Wonder how many arms and legs _this_ little service station visit's gonna cost you," Feathers muttered into Phil's ear.

"I won't beat around the bush, Mr. Harmonik," said the mechanic. "Even after insurance, repairs to your car are gonna cost you an arm and a leg."

Ab was horrified. "You can't cut off his arm and leg!" she cried. "How will he ever play hopscotch and clap his hands anymore!?"

Feathers groaned. "It's just a figure of speech, Ab!" After a pause, she added, "And who even _plays_ hopscotch anymore!?"

"Well, what do you expect him to play, hop-vodka?"

"I don't drink alcohol," Phil replied. "It interferes with your concentration." He then turned to the mechanic and added, "And mine seems to have wandered for a moment, I apologize. You were saying about the cost of repairs?"

"An arm and a leg, yes." To Ab, the mechanic added impatiently, "Just a figure of speech, yes!"

He turned back to Phil, pulled a small pouch out of his pocket, and added, "However, _these_ ought to cover the cost and then some!"

Phil and Feathers looked at the pouch in confusion. Ab looked confused in general. Phil took it but said, "This isn't mine. Where did you find it?"

"Under the driver's seat. What do you mean, it's not yours?"

Phil opened it. Landing on his shoulder, Feathers got a good view of its contents and her eyes bugged out twice their size. "Holy cow! It's a fortune in diamonds!"

"It must be the Joker's pouch," realized Phil. "He must have already robbed some jewelry stores before we met him."

"Diamonds?" asked Ab, suddenly interested. "Are there any hearts too?"

"Hearts?" asked Phil, not understanding.

"Hearts?" parroted Feathers. "Why would there be any hearts?"

"No hearts?" guessed Ab. "How about clubs or spades?"

Feathers groaned, finally getting it. "Not diamonds as in playing cards! Diamonds as in gemstones!"

"WOW!" Ab screamed, her eyes bugging out of their sockets. "We're rich! We're wealthy! We're financially secure - whatever that means!"

"Ab! AB!" yelled Feathers. "We're not rich, these were stolen!"

"Feathers is right," said Phil. "We must return them to their rightful owners."

Ab's ecstatic expression dissolved into a blank stare. After a few moments, she finally said, "Oh. Okay."

"We should go to the police station right away," said Phil. He turned to the mechanic and added, "As for my car, do all the necessary repairs, and just send the bill to my mailing address."

"Yeah, about that..." The mechanic pulled out the consent form Phil filled out when they arrived. "What kind of address is, 'Where the confluence of the ley lines of harmony intersect with the third astral plane'?"

"It's across the street from Larry's Pawn Shop in Camden."

Unfortunately for Phil, Ab, and Feathers, the directions the mechanic gave for the police station relied on descriptions of two landmarks that were too vague, and a street sign that got twisted around during their car chase earlier. It wasn't long before they got lost.

"Which way now, fearless leader?" demanded Feathers.

Phil replied, "There's no cause for alarm, Feathers. We'll simply engage another person and ask for fresh directions."

"A _guy_ asking for directions!" she blurted. "Now I _know_ you're not from this world!"

"Who do you want to engage, Phil?" asked Ab excitedly. "Can I come to the wedding?"

Patiently, Phil replied, "I don't want to marry them, just ask for directions." He glanced aside and added, "Perhaps someone at this house."

_Haunted_ house, by the look of it. Yes, I know we already had one a couple chapters ago, but there you are. It was a big old house, gray and sinister-looking, with its own belfry - and this one _did_ have bats flying around it! - surrounded by expansive grounds of creepy-looking trees and weed-infested gardens. There was even a small cemetery in the back. All of it was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence with a rusty two-door gate facing the road.

"Aw, and me without my trick-or-treat bag!" moaned Ab.

"I am NOT going in there!" cried Feathers. "That place makes Frankenstein's castle look like the Ritz!"

Phil tutted. "You _must_ stop making snap judgments on first appearances, Feathers. For all you know, the residents of this house could be bird-lovers. See that large conservatory on the east wing? It could easily be used as a sanctuary for rare birds, like you."

"Or a greenhouse!" added Ab. "Except it's not green, it's more of a grayish-brown - at least most of it. Actually, now I can see the trim around the windows is a darker shade of brown... The colors don't really coordinate that well."

"Appearances, Ab," Phil reminded her. "It's what's inside that counts."

"I can't see the inside. The windows are too dirty."

Phil got off the train of thought at that station and stepped toward the gate, looking for an intercom or something. There didn't appear to be one, but it looked like it wouldn't be necessary. The gates opened automatically as he approached. Whoever lived there evidently knew they were outside and was inviting them in. Phil and Ab stepped through the gate, with Feathers reluctantly riding along on Phil's shoulder, still certain this was a bad idea.

As soon as they were through, the gates closed behind them, and with very loud clangs that made all three of them jump, a giant iron latch pushed itself closed to lock them in.

"Rough neighborhood?" Feathers wondered nervously.

The only things that stopped her flying away right then and there were the real bats flying around the belfry and eyeing her like she was a feathery blood bank just waiting to be withdrawn from. For her own protection, she stuck close to Phil and Ab as they walked up the wilted garden path to the front porch. Phil took hold of the doorbell knob. To his surprise, it suddenly shot out of the wall about three feet, then pulled him back in, and triggered the doorbell. It sounded more like a foghorn than a bell.

Seconds later, the door opened with a loud creak, and out stepped a man who was nearly seven feet tall, dressed in a butler's uniform, and looked like if Frankenstein's monster had a twin brother. He greeted them with a low-pitched groan that sounded like an earthquake.

"It's alive!" squeaked Feathers.

"_He_ is alive," Phil corrected her. To the massive butler, Phil said, "Greetings, I am Phil Harmonik, this is Feathers, and Abigail Normal. We're trying to find the police station. Could you please help us?"

"Follo-o-ow me-e-e," the butler rumbled in a voice that was at least six octaves below middle C.

He slowly turned and led them inside the house, which creeped Feathers out even more than the outside. Phil and Feathers were close behind - okay, Phil was close behind the butler, Feathers had her wings wrapped tightly around Phil's neck and dug her talons so deeply into his shoulder she was going to draw blood any second. The inside of the house was dusty, dark, musty, and decorated like a taxidermist's nightmare. Among other things, there was a full-size stuffed polar bear standing against one wall in an attack pose, a giant tortoise with two heads, and a man-sized stuffed marlin mounted on another wall with a man's leg sticking out of its mouth!

Three people were in what appeared to be the main living room. One was a woman dressed neck to floor in a solid black dress, and she was cranking a large handheld gadget studded with vacuum tubes and other old-fashioned electrical parts. A thick lead ran from the gadget to a set of headphones worn by an older man who was completely bald and dressed in a long fur-lined trenchcoat. Electricity crackled from the gadget and around the headphones.

"Phil Harmonik and company," rumbled the butler. He slowly reached around and clutched Phil's hat off his head, almost pulling Feathers off his shoulder at the same time.

The woman turned at the announcement. "Thank you, Lurch, you may go." she replied.

The butler shuffled off, and Phil greeted them. "Greetings. Please forgive us if we're intruding."

"Not at all, welcome to our home!" the woman graciously returned the greeting. "I'm Morticia Addams, and this is our Uncle Fester. Please forgive _me_, I'm just about done recharging him."

"Recharging!?" exclaimed Feathers.

"Yeah," replied Fester, "the circuit breaker blew in the kitchen, and I had to keep the oven going so lunch wouldn't be late. It took a lot more out of me than I figured."

"We never should have replaced the gas stove," lamented Morticia. She then indicated the room's third occupant. "And this is my husband Gomez."

Gomez was a slightly younger man in a pinstripe suit, twisted up like a pretzel on the floor. Somehow, he was standing on his head with each leg curled up around his back and over the corresponding shoulder, while his arms were crossed over his chest with his hands wrapped around the back of his head, and he was reading a newspaper lying open on the floor in front of him.

"What happened to him?" asked Feathers. "Three falls out of five with your doorman?"

"This is my new Zen yogi position," Gomez declared. "Just got it yesterday from the High Rama Lama through my correspondence course."

"The High Rama Lama of Din-Don Monastery?" asked Phil. "I spent six months there studying Zen yogi under him!"

"Capital, a fellow devotee! Care to join me?"

"Oh, I'm clearly not at your level. That is a highly advanced position. In any case, I'm afraid we can't stay long."

"For once, we agree!" said Feathers.

Morticia stopped cranking. "There, how does that feel, Uncle Fester?"

Fester grinned from ear to ear. "I feel great, Morticia!" He pulled a light bulb out of his coat pocket and put it stem-first into his mouth. The bulb instantly lit up.

"Wonderful!" she replied. "Just in time for our picnic in the spider cave!"

Fester removed the light bulb and turned to Feathers to shake her wing. "Pleased you meet you, little birdie!"

"Oh no ya don't!" shrieked Feathers as she launched herself off Phil's shoulder and hovered well out of his reach. "I've been barbecued once already today!"

"I must apologize for Feathers," said Phil. "She has been through some harrowing experiences today, and she's still under a lot of stress."

"Oh, that's too bad," replied Fester. To Feathers, he added, "I know a great way to relieve stress, but I'm afraid you're a little small for the rack."

"The rack!?"

"I know! I could borrow Mama's saucepan and make it into a bird-size iron maiden!"

"_Iron maiden!?_"

"No, Mama wouldn't like that," replied Morticia. "She needs it to make the wolfbane sauce for her poison oak souffle tonight."

"Souffle!" gasped Gomez. "That's _French_!" He literally exploded out of his tangled yogi position, bounded to Morticia, grabbed her arm, and started kissing it like Don Juan on Viagra. "Tish, you know what that does to me!" His smooches made their way slowly up her arm. "Speak some more!" Smooch. "Soup du jour!" Smooch. "Creme brulee!" Smooch. "Duck a l'Orange!" Smooch.

"Gomez, please, remember our two guests."

Phil smiled graciously. "Oh, it's quite all right. Wait, _two_ guests?" He looked around the living room. "Where is Ab?"

Still hovering in mid-air, Feathers looked around too. "_Now_ where'd that airhead go!?"

"You lost someone?" asked Morticia.

"Yes, our friend Ab was right behind us," said Phil. Noting the Addams' blank looks, he realized, "She didn't come in with us?"

"Maybe she followed Lurch to the conservatory," suggested Gomez. "You know how irresistible he is to the ladies."

"Yeah," agreed Fester, "he's the Adam Levine of butlers!"

"Then Adam Levine's _really_ let himself go," muttered Feathers.

Gomez stepped over to a noose hanging from the ceiling and yanked down on it. The world's loudest gong rattled the entire house and knocked Feathers right out of the air.

Somehow, Lurch seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Yo-o-ou rang?" he rumbled.

"Lurch, the young lady who came with this gentleman. Have you seen her?"

Lurch slowly shook his head with another quake-like groan.

"She didn't even come in?"

"You mean she's still outside?" demanded Feathers. "She could be wandering around anywhere!"

"Yes, we should find her," agreed Phil. "And when we do..." He turned to their hosts. "We came to ask directions to the nearest police station. We found some stolen property that needs to be returned."

"Of course," replied Morticia. "It's four blocks east and two blocks south, on the corner of Bleak Street and Cemetery Road."

"Lovely neighborhood!" grinned Gomez. "Thought about buying some property there once, but the zoning laws don't allow drilling in that area."

"For oil?" asked Feathers.

"For quicksand."

"Well, thank you for the directions," said Phil. "I'm sorry to leave so soon, but we must find our friend."

"Come back anytime!" offered Gomez. "We'll share some more Zen yogi techniques!"

"I'd like that! Until next time."

Phil headed for the door, which Lurch held open for him, while Feathers once again clung protectively to his neck.

"Oh, my hat!" Phil suddenly realized. He saw it on a small end table near the front door, next to a lidded box. As he went to grab it, the box's lid opened and a hand reached out from inside it, took the hat, and held it out to Phil.

"Thank you," said Phil as the hand waved goodbye, as if it was an everyday occurrence to him.

Feathers peered inside the box. To her, a disembodied hand rising out of a bottomless box and waving goodbye was absolutely _not_ an everyday occurrence. She screamed and shot out the open front door like a bat out of hell.

Phil turned back toward the Addams Family and apologetically said, "Stress," before departing.

As Lurch closed the door behind him, Morticia sadly noted, "Poor parrot. And a tropical bird like her would already be under pressure from this winter weather."

"I know," Gomez agreed. "Even with the swamp heated, the alligators are getting listless. Snappy hardly touched his broiled yak this morning."

"Maybe we oughta send them someplace warmer until spring," suggested Fester. "There are some great swamps in Louisiana, and I've just been reading about a nice quiet one away from all the tourists, near Baton Rouge."

"Rouge! That's French!" His Latin blood fired up again, Gomez grabbed Morticia's arm and started kissing his way up again.

"Gomez! I didn't say it, Fester did!"

Smooch. "Your arm tastes better!" Smooch...

The reason Ab hadn't followed her friends into the house was that she suddenly remembered they were supposed to look for Myran's communicorder, and completely forgot about the diamond sack in her coat pocket. She returned to the sidewalk and started turning circles in place, trying to decide where she'd mostly likely find charity shops where the sweatpants might be, and finally settled on a direction up the street to an intersection and the nearest crosswalk.

Phil and Feathers returned to the sidewalk, but Ab was long gone. Feathers declared, "Split up. You go that way, I'll fly this way." Phil nodded and headed in the opposite direction to where Ab went. Feathers gained altitude to get a bird's-eye view - what else?

"Don't be a wise guy!"

However wise the comment was, it only took a minute or so to work. Feathers spotted Ab at the crosswalk just as the light turned and the pedestrians started crossing.

"Ab!" she called out. "AB! Wake up and look up!" Ab didn't hear, or just wasn't listening - or just wasn't conscious.

Determined not to lose her again, Feathers went into a power dive, aiming right at where she was going to be at the opposite corner of the intersection. Someone else was already at the corner, an old lady leaning heavily on a thick cane who happened to glance up at the kamikaze bird.

"AAAHHH! HITCHCOCK WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG!" she screamed. Summoning strength that would've made Jerry Atreck proud, she suddenly wielded her cane like a champion baseball hitter and connected with Feathers in a line drive all the way to the outfield. With a scream like a dental patient having a root canal without lidocaine, Feathers flew out of control for two blocks along the cross street, landing finally in a heap of plowed, dirty snow on a distant sidewalk.

And before she could regain full consciousness and dig herself out, a man pushing a snowblower came along and she was sucked into it along with the snow. It then fired her dripping wet and half-shredded out the back end into the river of slush running down the edge of the street, and swept her, screaming again, into an open manhole. Her screams ended abruptly with a loud, muddy splash heard from the sewer.

A few moments later, a low-pitched, energetic voice with a heavy Brooklyn accent came up from the sewer: "Vu-vu-vu-voom! Hey, look a' dis, Ralph! A parrot!"

"Abigail!"

Phil called out her name again as he walked along the street. "Abigail Normal!"

He called out yet again. "Ab Normal!"

"You sure are!" sneered a tough-looking guy passing Phil going the other way.

Scenes such as this repeated themselves for almost an hour before Phil decided he had to stop and rest for a moment. His resting spot was just outside a vacant lot surrounded by a high wall, with two large doors leading inside. As he leaned against the wall to allow his energies to recharge, he realized he didn't necessarily have to pause his search for Ab. If he focused his mind outward, he might possibly sense a faint tendril of Ab's aura drifting through the ether, and trace it to wherever she was. He closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts, and opened his mind to the universe.

He sensed something almost immediately. It wasn't Ab's aura, it was something totally different, much more powerful, and much more alien. And it was coming from inside the vacant lot.

Phil had been through uncounted deep meditations, vision quests, astral projections, even a few out-of-body experiences, but he had never sensed anything remotely like this. In a way, it reminded him of Myran and Chip, otherworldly and cosmic in scope. While Myran's aura was as alive as anyone's, and Chip's aura was much more machine-like, this presence felt like it was both at once. That in itself made it unique in his experience, but this was a presence that completely transcended space and time as anyone understood it, beyond anything even he could ever have imagined before he started on his great journey of understanding. He could also sense, even with just the brief glimpse he had, that it could potentially be the most powerful aura on Earth, and therefore potentially a terrible threat if it were to fall into the clutches of the less-enlightened.

Deciding it was vital to discover was this power was, in order to gauge whether or not its presence on Earth needed to be referred to the proper spiritual authorities, Phil quickly prepared himself mentally and emotionally for contact with its unknown, immeasurable energies, and carefully pushed open the doors. If he was to be Earth's impromptu ambassador to an otherworldly being of such power, he would not shirk from the responsibility.

He looked around and around inside the lot, and saw nothing otherworldly at all. The lot contained nothing but random, mundane junk, like any other scrapyard in any other city.

No, that wasn't entirely true, there was one thing that didn't quite fit in. It looked like a large, blue, rectangular cabinet, over seven feet tall and about half as wide, with a small lantern on top. One side of the cabinet had twin doors, and a sign above them said "POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX".

Phil open his mind again to double-check, and the powerful presence immediately asserted itself. To his surprise, it was clearly coming from the blue box. Despite the smaller sign on one of the doors that said there was a telephone inside, it was clearly much more than just an old-fashioned telephone booth or cabinet.

Another presence behind him made Phil turn around and see two people entering the vacant lot. One was a young woman with dark hair, sensibly wearing a winter coat and boots against the cold weather. The other was a taller man dressed in a long dark coat, with a broad floppy hat covering a head of dark curly hair. His cold weather ensemble included a multi-colored scarf that was so long that, even wrapped around his neck several times, Phil didn't know how the man avoided tripping on it.

The woman suddenly spotted Phil and grabbed her companion, jolting him out of whatever occupied his mind. He spotted Phil and, with a wide grin, said, "Hello! Come to see us off, have you?"

"See you off? I don't understand."

"Well of course you don't. Nothing's been explained, has it?"

"No, but understanding always takes time."

"Exactly! It's always about time, isn't it?"

"Doctor!" the woman tried to get his attention, "There's no need to keep this man from his business, and we _do_ have to be going, don't we?"

Phil stared at the man. "Doctor... yes, you do have the aura of a wise man, a man who heals people."

The Doctor grinned again. "Is it that noticeable? If only more people did. So many others seem to get the impression that I'm some kind of clown!"

"Can't imagine why," muttered the woman sarcastically.

As if only just now noticing his companion again, the Doctor said to Phil, "Oh, do forgive me! This is Sarah."

She shook Phil's hand and added, "Sarah Jane Smith."

"Phil Harmonik."

If she thought his name was weird, she didn't mention it. Instead, she mentioned, "Um - I see you noticed the police box."

Phil turned serious and replied, "Yes, I noticed what it _appears_ to be, but I sense enormous and unknown power emanating from it, on spiritual, astral, and other levels I can't even describe. You should stay back, it might be dangerous."

"Dangerous!?" angrily blurted the Doctor. "Rubbish! She's the friendliest sort you'll ever meet! Wouldn't hurt a fly!" He suddenly turned shamefaced as he added, "Well, not intentionally. She did land on a centipede once. But in all fairness, that centipede _was_ trying to destroy the planet Jaxalon!"

Sensing a change in the aura of the police box, Phil abruptly turned toward it and cautiously laid a hand on one of the doors. "What are you doing?" demanded Sarah anxiously.

"It's humming," declared Phil. "I was right, it _is_ almost alive!"

"See? She likes you, Phil!" declared the Doctor.

Suddenly, the door swung inwards just as Phil put his weight on his hand to get a better feel, and he tumbled inside. But instead of just falling down halfway and hitting the other side of the box, he stumbled into a well-lit and very large room. The walls were covered with round depressions, and at the center of the room stood a six-sided, mushroom-shaped control panel. And all around him, Phil could feel the immense cosmic power in all its unfiltered might. It was overwhelming, but at the same time, beautiful beyond words.

"I didn't know she liked you _that_ much!" observed the Doctor, nonplussed, as he stepped inside.

Sarah was right behind him. "Oh, this is just great!" she snapped. To Phil, she tried to ease the astonished disbelief he undoubtedly felt as she said, "It's called a TARDIS, and yes, you're not imagining it, it _is_ bigger on the inside." With a nonchalant shrug, she added, "You get used to it."

"Oh, of that, I have no doubt," he replied with a smile. To the Doctor, he added, "I can see why you call her 'she'. Your vessel has the soul of a mother and a lover, caring, protecting, and guiding you to where your potential can be realized to the fullest." To Sarah, he added, "As for being bigger on the inside, why should I find that hard to believe? We are _all_ bigger on the inside. Our minds hold entire worlds within them while contained within our tiny physical bodies, worlds just as real and influential as the material forms around us."

"The vastness of the immaterial mind as opposed to the confines of the material body," mused the Doctor. "Cartesian dualism at its core."

"You've studied the philosophies of Rene Descartes?" asked Phil.

"Studied him? I met him!" With an indignant huff, he added, "Took me forever to convince him I really exist!"

Apparently the memory was a serious blow to his ego, because the Doctor's huff led him to start fiddling absent-mindedly with the control panel. Before Sarah or Phil knew what was happening, the doors closed, and the transparent column jutting up from the center of the control mushroom started shifting up and down.

Sarah suddenly noticed. "Doctor, what've you done!?"

"Set course for the World's Fair!" he replied, as if the answer was obvious. "Saint Louis was lovely that time and year. If we hurry, we can be first to try their new waffle cones!"

It was only then that he remembered Phil was standing next to him. "Ah. Ever fancied a trip to Saint Louis in 1904?"

"I can't leave on a voyage now, I have two missing friends that I have to find!"

"Doctor, we've got to take him back!" insisted Sarah. "Can't you - I don't know, turn the TARDIS around?"

"Of course, I can!" The Doctor turned back to the controls, just as the central column stopped and settled down. "Except we've already landed."

"_That_ was a short trip!" she noted.

"Time means nothing when traveling through the astral plane," Phil noted back.

"Or through the time vortex," the Doctor noted back again.

"That's funny," Sarah noted back at him, "you'd think time meant everything to a 'time' vortex."

"Well... there's time, and then there's _time_."

Sarah's patience wore thin. "And right now, it's _time_ to take Phil back to where we found him!"

"In a moment..." The Doctor was distracted again by the controls. "The coordinate settings are off. Time monitor is out." He looked up. "I've no idea where we are!"

"So what else is new?" demanded Sarah.

"I'll try the viewscreen." The Doctor pulled a switch, and a panel in the far wall opened up to reveal a large flat-screen monitor embedded in the wall.

The viewer showed lush green fields with strange-looking forests interspersed among them. The most prominent landmark was a huge rainbow arching over the sky and apparently landing in one of the fields.

"Very odd," observed the Doctor. "Rainbows usually don't behave that way."

"I've never seen a view like that before," said Sarah. "Except in a movie I saw once."

Her eyes went wide, and she turned to the Doctor in disbelief. "Doctor... You don't think...!"

"Impossible!" he snapped. His mood abruptly changed again to uncertainty, and he added, "Unless... In an infinite universe with infinite variations on a theme... Could it be?"

"Could it be what?" asked Phil. After a moment, he realized he'd seen the same movie once - he was still a boy, and his parents made him watch it even though its ideas of spiritual perfection were nothing but sell-outs to Hollywood's obsession with meaningless spectacle and cheap laughs. "You mean...!"

"We're over the rainbow!" exclaimed Sarah.

She, the Doctor, and Phil looked at each other, and then uttered a loud, collective groan.

"First the Addams Family, now this?" griped Sarah. "I've read better-written stories in tabloids!"

**I claim all copyrights for the characters of Phil, Ab, and Feathers, so there! Copyrights I can't claim include Gomez and Morticia Addams, Uncle Fester, Lurch, and Thing, all based on characters created by Charles Addams. Their TV show is copyright to Filmways and MGM Television, with the characters respectively brought to life by John Astin, Carolyn Jones, Jackie Coogan, Ted Cassidy, and whoever's arm was supposed to be Thing.**  
**As for the Doctor and Sarah, they're copyright to the BBC, and we thank Tom Baker and Elisabeth Sladen for bringing them to life. And the voice from the sewer? Copyright to CBS Television Distribution and thanks to Art Carney.**


	15. Flight of Fancy

**Chapter 14**  
**Flight of Fancy, or**  
**Oh, a Wise-Sky, Eh!?**

Only his antigravity harness' instantly-adjusting inertial fields saved Myran from being smeared like jelly all over the fighter jet's windshield. But his harness wasn't designed to operate under these conditions of extreme speed, wind shear, and unpredictable changes in direction of motion. Once he recovered from the shock, all he could immediately think of doing was to scream, "WHY ARE YOU FLYING A MILITARY JET OVER A CIVILIAN AIRPORT!?"

"WHY ARE _YOU_ PRETENDING TO BE A BUG SPLATTERING ON MY WINDSHIELD!?"

The voice was shockingly familiar. "_RHODA!?_ WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE!?"

"I'M TESTING THIS PLANE FOR DEFECTS! IT FLIES GREAT!"

"RHODA! IF YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW TO LAND THIS PLANE, DO IT _NOW_!"

"I DON'T KNOW HOW TO LAND! I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO FLY THIS! IT TOOK OFF BY ACCIDENT! CAN _YOU_ FLY THIS!?"

"NOT WHILE I'M OUT HERE HANGING ON FOR DEAR LIFE!"

"OH, DO YOU WANT TO COME INSIDE!?"

"THAT WOULD BE NICE, YES!"

"I THINK I KNOW HOW TO DO THAT!"

To his shock, she apparently _did_ know how to do that, as the canopy suddenly slid open. Myran willed his harness fly him into the cockpit - it ended up much more a tumble than a controlled flight - then Rhoda closed the canopy again and Myran struggled to reorient his cockeyed body into a more comfortable sitting position in the passenger seat.

"So you at least know how to open a fighter canopy!" he gasped.

"I do?" she replied. "I was trying to turn on the grabber arm!"

"The _what_!?"

"You know! All the garbage trucks have them! I figured I could scoop you up and pour you into the cockpit with me!"

"I don't know why you think this is like a garbage truck, and I don't care!" He fished around in his pocket. That's when he discovered, "My spare communicorder is smashed! My harness couldn't compensate enough for the impact when you slammed into me!"

"It could be worse!"

"Worse!? It means all our communications are now cut off! None of the other teams can contact me if they get into trouble, and even if they could, I can't remotely activate the transmat to beam us or anybody else back to the studio! Which in turn means that unless I can figure out this aircraft's controls, we're trapped _and_ flying out of control to who knows where! How could things be worse!?"

"We could be flying through a swarm of radioactive dung beetles from Pluto! They could get jammed into the engines and cause the radio to pick up the all-Elvis station, and then we'd be so mesmerized by his music, we'd fly like zombies to Graceland and crash into an outhouse full of unused fish scalers!"

" . . . Why do I even ask?"

Myran secured his safety harness, and then began studying the control panel in front of him. While the complex controls would have given the average human nightmares about Rube Goldberg devices, they were child's play to the plane's alien passenger. "Okay Rhoda, it looks like the automatic pilot is active. I'll deactivate it and take control."

Turned out it wasn't quite the child's play he thought, as a touchscreen activated with a digital keyboard. "It needs a password!"

"I'll do it, I'm a whiz with computers!" declared Rhoda.

"Since when?"

"Since my brother's computer caught a virus and I single-handedly cured it!"

Myran seriously doubted that eliminating one computer virus made you an instant expert, but he was a first contact specialist, not a computer specialist, so he said, "All right, give it a try."

From his position, he couldn't see what Rhoda subsequently did, but he could hear, "Okay computer, blow your nose into this."

Myran wasn't sure he heard right. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get the autopilot to turn off. First, I'm checking if it's just too stuffed up to get to sleep."

"Stuffed up to - Rhoda! Firstly, this computer doesn't have a virus, its security protocols are just locking us out! And even if it did have a virus, you can't treat a computer virus the same way you treat a living one!"

"Oh yeah!? I treated my brother's computer the same, and I got it to turn off, no problem!"

"I thought you said you _fixed_ it!

"I did! Whatever virus it had was causing it to run wild. The processor, the fans, everything, and he couldn't shut it off."

"But blowing the computer's 'nose' shut it off?"

"No, but the chicken soup did."

After a pregnant pause, Myran noted, "Yes, I suppose that would." He made a mental note not to let Rhoda within four meters of any of his tech anymore.

"Which is weird," added Rhoda, "'cause I always eat jalapeno and cabbage soup when I'm sick. With a dollop of molasses."

Myran made a mental note to advise Rupert not to let Rhoda near his kitchen either. Out loud, he had to ask, "What about if you have a stomach ailment?"

". . . What about it?"

Myran made a mental note to scan Rhoda's stomach lining for any signs of superdense armor plating. Out loud, he said, "I think we should just concentrate on figuring out the password."

"I can do that!"

"Yes, I know, you're a whiz with computers." It was only because of decades of training and experience in infiltrating alien cultures, and pretending to be something he wasn't, that Myran was able to say that with a straight face.

"No, I mean I met the guys who designed this plane. Knowing what I do about them, I can guess what kind of password they chose."

That was actually a halfway decent point, Myran thought. "Okay, so who are they?"

"Let's see. They're a pair of 'good 'ol boys' from Georgia, they're into fast cars and planes, they're expert mechanics, and they volunteer for hazardous duties, so they must be adrenaline junkies." She thought for a second and then said, "So the password is most likely-y-y . . . 'Potassium'!"

Myran's finger hovered unmoving over the touchscreen for a few moments, before he finally asked, "What does potassium have to do with all that?"

"Isn't it obvious? To make a car or a plane run really fast, you need to lower its weight by making the dashboard out of really lightweight materials, like piano keys or lime jelly. But these guys are from Georgia, so they'd have to use something that's more readily available, like potholders. Next, being expert mechanics, they'll know how to make cauliflower stroganoff, and of course you can't do that without potholders or you'll burn your hands, and that would be pretty hazardous!"

"... Rhoda..."

"And what are potholders made of?" she quizzed Myran.

"... _Pot_-assium?"

"Exactly!"

Myran didn't know which was more unbelievable, that anyone's thought processes could lead them to a conclusion like that, or that he was actually typing in this so-called password. The result was exactly as he predicted. "It didn't work."

"I was _sure_ it would!" exclaimed Rhoda, completely surprised. "What else would they think of for a password!?"

With an exasperated sigh, Rhoda continued, "Okay, if it's not potassium... given the same things about them, maybe it's... 'Calligraphy'!"

Rhoda spent the next few hours or so suggesting more password choices, each making even less sense than the one before. Myran paid just enough attention to know when Rhoda was expecting his input, and otherwise ignored her in favoring of trying to guess the password on his own. All the while, the plane continued flying on its pre-programmed course thanks to its automatic pilot - which is a pretty amazing technical feat, since there wasn't any course programmed into it.

During that time, Myran noted they passed over a large city, and from there, out over an ocean. Given their general westward course, Myran correctly assumed it was the Pacific Ocean. This prompted Myran to interrupt Rhoda's musings, which at this point involved something incomprehensible to do with dental floss and several cans of refried beans. "Rhoda, are you aware that we're now flying over the Pacific Ocean?"

"... What does that have to do with dental floss and refried beans?"

"Absolutely nothing." Myran was determined to get his point across this time. "Rhoda, the Pacific is the largest ocean on your planet. Over ten thousand Earth-miles wide, isn't it?"

"I'll take your word for it, Myran. If you're giving it out for free, of course. I wouldn't want to take anything of yours without permission. I'm a better friend than that."

"I appreciate that, really. But that's a very long distance by the standards of Earth technology. If this aircraft doesn't have enough fuel to make it across, we're going to crash in the middle of the ocean."

Rhoda realized that was a good point. "That's a good point." Now cut that out!

"Check the fuel gauge," Myran instructed. "How much is left?"

Rhoda searched around the instrument panel and found what appeared to be the fuel gauge. She smiled and replied, "Don't worry, the gauge reads a full tank."

This only made Myran even more worried. "Did it read a full tank when you took off?"

Rhoda thought back to that chapter, and realized Myran was right. It read a full tank for the whole flight.

"Rhoda, I'm not an expert on Earth technology, so please correct me if I'm wrong, but most Earth vehicles aren't that fuel-efficient, are they?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then is it safe to assume that the fuel tanks aren't really full? That instead, maybe the gauge is malfunctioning?"

"Could be."

"Which therefore means there's no telling how much fuel actually remains in this plane. For all we know, we could run out any minute!"

Suddenly the engine roar began to sputter.

"Or, we could run out right now."

As their speed and altitude began to decrease, Rhoda said, "Myran, I don't suppose you're carrying enough super-alien fertilizer to spread over the ocean below us, so we can grow an algae bed big enough to cushion our fall?"

"That would be a no."

"In that case . . WE'RE GONNA DIE!"

Two seconds into her screaming, Myran suddenly shouted over it, "Maybe not!" He unbuckled himself, quickly slipped out of his coat, and then unbuckled his antigravity harness. "Rhoda! Open the hatch again!"

Rhoda stopped screaming long enough to reply, "You want us to bail out!?"

"No, we're too far from land, we might never be found! I have another idea, but I need to get to the plane's center of gravity! Open the hatch, just like you did before!"

"Uh - right!" Rhoda grabbed the control and tripped it. The windshield wipers turned on.

"I could've sworn that's the one..." she muttered. "Maybe this one." She tried another control. Her seat slowly started rising. She tripped the control the other way, and her seat lowered again. "Power seats. Nice!"

"Never mind the seats, Rhoda, find the hatch release!" Myran suddenly added, "Like you did before, trying to activate the grabber arm!"

"Oh, that!" Rhoda repeated what she did before, and the hatch slid open. Despite the hurricane-force winds suddenly pouring into the cockpit, Myran climbed outside onto the fuselage. He struggled to keep his hold on the exterior as he climbed hand over hand to the plane's center of gravity. Once there, he activated the magnatomic adhesion pads on his harness and clamped it to the plane's surface. Then, with the tiny control pad on the buckle, he set the harness to generate the widest antigravity field it was capable of.

Myran pinched his nose - the closest he could do in his human body to an old termazid good-luck gesture. To his relief, a few moments later he felt the jet become weightless. A few adjustments to his harness, and they pulled out of their descent and went into a horizontal course again, only at a much slower speed than before to make it easier for him to hang on.

To Rhoda's astonishment, the plane was flying thousands of feet in the air at a speed of no more than forty miles per hour. "How'd you do that!?" she exclaimed.

"Simple manipulation of inertia," he replied. "I've been zero-g sky-surfing since I was pre-pubescent!"

"Surfing!? Why didn't you tell me, I've been that for years myself!"

"In the sky!? I've heard of human parachutists strapping surfboards to their feet - you mean that!?"

"No, I don't surf in the sky! In grain silos!"

". . . . Okay, I'll ask. How do you surf inside a grain silo?"

"With care. You gotta keep your mouth closed the whole time, unless you want to spend a fortune on dental floss."

". . . . AN-yway, I should tell you, this reprieve won't last long. Generating an anti-gravity field this large is draining the harness' power cells very quickly. At this rate, I'd say they'll run out in a little more than an hour. Our only other option is to lower the plane onto the ocean's surface, and I seriously doubt it will float. Start looking around for something like an emergency life raft."

"How about an island instead?"

"That would be another option, if there was an island within range."

"Is that one in range?"

To Myran's surprise, Rhoda was pointing toward the horizon to the southwest, and there actually was an island in that direction! "It just might!"

To make a long story short -

"Too late!"

Shut up, Myran! He maneuvered the weightless aircraft to the island and set it gently down on a wide beach facing a lush jungle. Myran detached his harness and wrapped it back on under his clothes, noting the batteries were indeed drained to a precariously low level. He wouldn't be flying himself or Rhoda off the island, much less home anytime soon, and without a working communicorder, they were both stranded. Myran had taken only the basic survival course at the space academy, so all he knew was that the first things they needed to find were fresh water and food. He had only a vague knowledge of how to build a shelter and start a fire with naturally-occurring materials. Other than that, he was seriously concerned how he and Rhoda were going to survive until any form of rescue materialized.

He spotted Rhoda just up the beach. In the brief period he was contemplating their predicament, she managed to build a fully 3-D sand sculpture of a building straight out of an M. C. Escher painting. Google it. It'll make your head spin.

"You like it?" she asked Myran. "I always wanted to live in a home like this. My uncle designed homes like this!"

"Did he actually _build_ one like this?"

"He would have, but the architects firm talked him into an early retirement package. A pretty good one - even came with a rent-free apartment! Must be a pretty expensive one too, if they used pillows on all the walls instead of paper."

"We may have to make due with leaves for walls if we stay here very long. Let's see if we can find some fresh water."

He and Rhoda walked along the beach until they found a gap through the jungle. Myran couldn't help noticing the path was well-worn, suggesting there had been many other people or animals on the island in recent years. What they found at the end of the path confirmed it.

The path ended in a large clearing. Four grass and bamboo huts were arrange in a wide arc around the clearing, all surrounding a large picnic table also made from grass and bamboo. It was evidently an attempt to mimic Earth-style civilized society as well as possible using local materials. It reminded Myran of one of the Earth novels uploaded into his memory in preparation for his studies of the culture, _Robinson Crusoe_.

"That clinches it, Rhoda, this island is inhabited. There must be at least half a dozen other people here."

"Omigosh!" she exclaimed, suddenly afraid. "You don't think they're dangerous, do you?"

"We shouldn't assume that."

"Oh no!? Look at those footprints! High heels and sneakers!?" She started looking around fearfully. "We've obviously landed on an island run by members of a brainwashed cult devoted to the five gods of pineapple upside-down cake, who anoint all their unwilling new members with coconut milk and perform ritualistic hula electrolysis to drain your very soul!"

For the umpteenth time, Myran wondered if even the most expert xenopsychologists of the Star Confederation could figure out how Rhoda's brain was wired. Then he realized Rhoda was staring at him, all the fear on her face replaced with disbelief. "Or an island run by overused TV characters."

He then realized Rhoda wasn't actually staring at him, but at whatever was directly behind him. Myran spun around and saw seven people in a row at the clearing's edge, four male and three female. Of the males, one was young and skinny, barely in his twenties, wearing a red shirt, blue jeans, and a sailor hat. The second male was older and heavier, wearing a blue shirt and a captain's hat. The third was plainly dressed, with an age and weight somewhere between the first two. The fourth and oldest male was dressed like the president of a yacht club and had a correspondingly aristocratic look about him.

The oldest male was standing next to the oldest female, who was equally well-dressed and aristocratic-looking. The second female was red-haired and looked like the cover girl of a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue from the 1960's. The third female was a more down-to-earth-looking brunette.

Myran turned back to Rhoda. "What does the writer have against original characters?"

"What are we, chopped liver?"

"Gee Skipper," said the youngest male to the heavy one in the captain's hat, "we've got more visitors. Maybe they're having a convention here."

"Oh sure, Gilligan!" the Skipper retorted with gobs of sarcasm. "They just couldn't resist the lovely resort we have here!" He grabbed his hat and beaned Gilligan on the head with it.

Gilligan's remark about Rhoda and Myran being "more visitors" naturally implied that they were not the first visitors to their uncharted desert isle. (loud throat-clearing sound) Indeed, out of the jungle walked three more people whom Rhoda instantly recognized.

"Jerry! Bo! Luke! How'd you get here!?" she exclaimed.

A fourth "person" was just behind the first three. "Chip!?" exclaimed Myran. "What's going on!?"

"We were attempting to come in aid of Rhoda, whom I calculated was enroute to Hawaii," Chip answered.

"In _our_ plane!" snapped Bo.

"Due to a processing error -" Chip turned accusingly to Bo and Luke "- precipitated by their actions - I miscalculated our arrival destination. I cannot calculate how Rhoda could have arrive on this same island."

"Actually, it's quite simple," said the plainly-dressed male. "Based on my readings of regional wind patterns, and factoring in high-altitude shear induced by the Category 1 storm currently over the southern Hawaiian Islands, a localized Coriolis effect could have altered your course in our direction."

"Indeed, Professor? I would like to study your meteorological notes."

"Whatever the reason, I'm glad you're both safe!" declared Jerry. "Everyone, this is Myran and Rhoda. Rhoda's the one we told you about, but I have no idea how Myran got mixed up in this!"

"_Painfully_!" Myran replied.

"I can help with that," said the redheaded model. "I dated a Hollywood masseuse for a few months." She smiled mischievously and added, "He was _really_ good with his hands!"

The brunette raised her eyebrows at her. "If we ever get rescued, Ginger, could you give me his phone number?"

Jerry turned to Myran and Rhoda. "Any chance _you_ brought a way to rescue us? Like say, a hi-tech military jet?"

"Parked on a beach on the north side of the island," replied Myran.

The original castaways all perked up. "You mean you really have a _plane_ here!?" exclaimed the Skipper.

"Oh boy, a plane!" Gilligan exclaimed like an excited schoolboy. "We're going home by plane! I've never ridden on a plane before!"

"A plane that's now out of fuel and completely powerless."

The faces of the original castaways all fell.

"How'd you get here in a plane without gas?" asked Gilligan.

"I attached my antigravity harness to it when it ran out, and now it doesn't have enough power to fly either."

"Auntie Gravity?" asked Mrs. Howell. "Unusual name, but it was nice of her to loan you her harness."

"Now if only she'd loaned us an extra gas can," lamented Ginger.

Mrs. Howell continued, "Well, you could always fill up at our gas refinery. And seeing as how you're U.S. Air Force, I'm sure Thurston will give you a discount at the pump."

Her husband impatiently told her, "Lovey, my gas refinery is in Texas, and I'm afraid we're outside the towing company's range. And anyway, 'discount'!? The percentage of my tax dollars they take, they should give _me_ a discount on defense of my Middle Eastern fig plantation!"

"Is that where they make the cookies?" asked Gilligan. "I miss them!"

"But we don't need to power up the whole plane!" declared Luke. "Just the radio! Bo and I can rig it to run off another electricity source."

"If there _is_ another source here," Bo pointed out.

"I will be that source," said Chip. "My batteries should provide more than sufficient power for your purpose."

"Then what are waiting for? Let's go!" ordered Jerry.

The excited dash to the north side of the island took mere minutes. Bo, Luke, and Chip got to work on the radio as soon as they arrived, while the others stood on the beach around the aircraft and marveled it. "Wow!" exclaimed Gilligan. "I bet you could fly Mach ten in this!"

"Mach twelve!" Bo called down a correction.

"Long as the lights aren't against you!" Luke added.

"Very impressive!" exclaimed the Professor. "Obviously an advanced design, judging by the air-injection system and the variable-speed turbines."

"It is amazing," agreed Myran. Under his breath, he added, "for a Level 4A planet."

Jerry told the Professor, "Sounds like you know enough about technology to give even Myran and Chip a run for their money."

"I like to think so."

"And yet you've been stranded here all these years 'cause you can't even build a lousy raft!?"

"We _have_ built rafts! Several times, in fact!" protested the Skipper. "But Gilligan the Wonder-Klutz here always manages to wreck 'em!"

"That's the story of my life," muttered Gilligan. He took off his sailor hat. "See all those scuff marks on my hat? That's from all the times Skipper clobbered me with his."

Bo and Luke emerged from the cockpit. "It's all set!" Bo called down. "Chip's plugging himself in now!"

Chip's power lead extended from the access port in his side and, under Luke's instructions, he was splicing it to the leads from the radio transceiver. "Calculating optimal voltage and current," he stated as he made adjustments to his internal transformer nodes.

Moments later, the radio powered up. "Power levels steady. You may now transmit."

Luke put on the headset linked to the radio: "If anyone can hear this broadcast, we are stranded on an island approximately three hundred miles south of Hawaii. Please send help at once."

Nothing but static answered the broadcast.

"Tell them there's a half million dollar reward for rescuing us!" Mr. Howell called up.

The radio immediately came to life. _"Hello? This is the fishing vessel Hookline. We have triangulated your position from your radio broadcast. We will be there in three hours to pick you up. Wait for us on the north beach. Hookline out. Oh, and have the check ready when we arrive."_

"What did I tell you? The universal language!"

"The _Earth_ language, yes," replied Myran.

"Don't knock it if it works," replied Jerry.

"Oh, I can't believe it! After fifty years in reruns, we're finally going to be rescued!" cried Ginger. Everyone else was in an equally good mood.

"Hey, what about our plane?" Luke spoke up. "We've gotta have it back in New Jersey, or our C.O.'ll skin us alive!"

"No problem!" replied Bo. "Don't ya remember the emergency pontoons? They'll keep her afloat all the way to Pearl Harbor, then we fill 'er up again and fly back home!"

"Okay everybody," announced the Skipper to his fellow castaways, "we've all got three hours to pack, so let's get started!"

Jerry announced, "While you're doing that, we'll rig up a way for the boat to tow the jet back to civilization. I'll start gathering vines."

Luke declared, "I'll set up the tailhook. Bo, you get the pontoons inflated."

Myran declared, "Chip and I will stay by the radio."

Rhoda declared, "And I'll hot-wax the refrigerator coils."

Everyone else stopped in their tracks.

"You'll _what_ the _what_?" asked Mary Ann.

"Well come on! What if the pontoons puncture? Then we'll need to keep the plane afloat with ice instead!"

"But then wouldn't the hot wax melt the ice?" asked Jerry.

"How else are we going to keep the coils slippery enough to slide through the water?"

"I'm afraid Jerry's right, Rhoda," said Mrs. Howell. "Sunblock lotion works much better than wax."

Rhoda caught up with her. "You have some?"

"Oh yes, I never go anywhere without it! Even a little of this tropical sun is dreadful on my skin."

"Yes, I sometimes dab some of her lotion on my money," noted Mr. Howell. "Keeps the sun from fading it."

As Rhoda followed them from the beach, the Skipper retorted, "That explains why my pinochle winnings squirted out of my wallet last week!"

Almost three hours later, the jet's pontoons were fully inflated. Several thick ropes made of braided vines were tied to its tailhook and trailed a few dozen feet along the sand, ready to tie to the rescue ship. Rhoda and the seven castaways returned to the north beach with all their belongings. As Jerry had long suspected, they had a tremendous amount of luggage for what was originally supposed to be just a three-hour tour. She particularly marveled at the size of Mrs. Howell's steamer trunk. "Boy, you sure have a lot of clothes with you."

"Oh no, this isn't my wardrobe," she replied, "it's my purse."

"You should've see my first piggy bank," grinned Mr. Howell. "By George, I needed a stepladder to put my allowance in it!"

"Hey, there's the ship!" shouted Mary Ann, pointing toward the horizon. The fishing vessel quickly grew larger as it approached the island. The original seven castaways could hardly believe it was true that they were finally getting off the island.

The more recent ones, having spent far less time stranded here, naturally didn't feel as much excitement, but by all rights they would still feel good to know they would be going home. Except that Chip had no emotions so he couldn't feel good or bad, and Jerry and Rhoda figured Myran would just send them right back out into the world again to look for his missing communicorder.

Myran confirmed it when told them, "Remember you two, our job isn't finished yet. We've still got to find my . . you-know-what. So don't get too comfortable when we get home."

Minutes later, the ship dropped anchor and a power launch pulled away from it, heading for shore.

"Oh boy oh boy, here it comes!" Gilligan squealed, jumping up and down like he was having the world's biggest sugar rush.

"Calm down, little buddy," the Skipper said, "you're gonna jump right out of your shoes!"

The launch and its four passengers pulled in to within a few feet of shore. The passengers then stood up and pointed four rifles at the thirteen beach bums. "Greetings from the Hookline. We now have you hook, line, and suckers!" announced the leader with an evil laugh.

Normally, anyone in this situation would feel sudden fear, if not total panic. Jerry, however, reacted with an angry, "What's the big idea!? You trying to rescue us or mug us!?"

"Yeah, what's this all about!?" demanded Luke.

The leader answered, "First, we want your airplane. Second, we want you!"

"And if we refuse?" Rhoda asked defiantly.

All four rifles uttered loud clicks as their bolts were pulled back.

"Just asking." All thirteen castaways started moving toward the launch.

"Hold it, I can't take all of you in this boat!" snapped the leader. He looked at the seven original castaways. "You seven stay. We're only taking the others."

"But that's not fair!" wailed Mary Ann. "We've been here much longer than they have!"

"Shut up, Mary Ann!" retorted Bo. He, Luke, Myran, Rhoda, Jerry, and Chip carefully waded toward the launch while two of the gunmen tied the jet's ropes to the launch.

"What happened to chivalry!?" Ginger wailed angrily at Bo and Luke. "The brave soldiers coming to the aid of damsels in distress!?"

"We're not soldiers, we're mechanics!" retorted Luke. "And if we don't get this plane back, _we'll_ be the ones in distress!"

They climbed into the launch with their fellow captives, and the four gunmen then took off for the Hookline, dragging the jet into the water on its pontoons.

The remaining castaways watched them depart in total disgust. "How do you like that!" snapped the Skipper. "Do you believe those guys!?"

"Indeed!" huffed Mr. Howell. "They'd rather steal five people, a robot, and a broken-down airplane instead of my money!"

"Cheer up, Mr. Howell," said Gilligan, "maybe the next visitors will steal your money."

Mr. Howell looked at Gilligan as if he just went mad. Then he turned to the Skipper and said, "Skipper?"

"With pleasure," he growled, and again walloped Gilligan over the head with his hat.

To the Skipper's surprise, Gilligan grinned and took off his hat, revealing a hard hat hidden underneath. "Nyaah!" he taunted him, sticking his tongue out.

Skipper responded by swinging his hat into Gilligan's stomach instead. Gilligan doubled over and then sheepishly pushed his tongue back into his mouth.

**Jerry, Myran, Rhoda, and Chip: just as before, copyright to me and me alone! So are the crooks in the boat. Bo and Luke are copyright to Warner Brothers Television, with thanks once again to John Schneider and Tom Wopat for the characters.**

**The seven stranded castaways are copyright to United Artists Television and Warner Bros. Television, and thanks for bringing these characters to life go to Bob Denver (Gilligan), Alan Hale Jr. (the Skipper too), Jim Backus (the millionaire), Natalie Schafer (his wife), Tina Louise (the movie star), Russell Johnson (the Professor), and Dawn Wells (and Mary Ann). Here on "The Weirdest Story Ever To-o-o-old!"**


	16. Wired for Sound

**Chapter 15**  
**Wired for Sound, or**  
**Micro-phonies**

While Jerry, Myran, Rhoda, and Chip were enduring their unintentional ocean cruise, back in St. Louis, Joe and Homer were having their own screw-ups. Their oddball escapades began when they arrived at St. Louis Police Headquarters the next morning at 8:14 and 25 seconds.

"You're 25 seconds late!" growled the desk sergeant.

"We already heard the guy!" retorted Homer.

"I don't know why we have to come here to get wired," added Joe. "Just let me make some coffee, that'll wire us up better than anything."

Homer glared anxiously at the sergeant. "Don't do it! One cup of Joe's coffee, and we'll all become human pinball machines!"

The sergeant gave them a strange look and replied, "You better use our equipment anyway, it's insured. You'll report to our special branch to be fitted out. Down that hall, second door on the left, through the break room, elevator to the third floor, turn right in the hall, third door on the right, up the stairs, hallway right, first door on the left, past the copier, second door on the right, back of the broom closet. You can't miss it."

"I can't even _say_ it," retorted Joe.

They had to flag down an intern to guide them to the special branch's department. That it actually _was_ through a hidden door in the back of a broom closet raised red flags in Homer's mind. It made Joe think he was about to meet his kind of people.

The door led into a surprisingly spacious office with several desks and doorways leading to several other rooms, at least one of which looked like a laboratory. Strange thing was, the wall on one side of the laboratory doorway was missing; anybody could pass from the main office to the laboratory without even using the door.

A small group of plain-clothes people sat at desks or milled around the main office, obviously doing important investigative work despite the out-of-the-way location of their department. One of them, a middle-aged man with a face as emotionless as the sergeant they talked to the day before, broke off from what he was doing and approached the visitors.

"I'm Sergeant Frank Drebin, Detective-Lieutenant Police Squad, a special division of the police force. You must be the two volunteers for the sting operation."

"You could say that," said Homer.

"I just did, why would I say it again?" Drebin asked in all seriousness. He then turned to another middle-aged man and declared, "Capt. Hocken, come see our two new plants!"

Hocken came over, carrying a plate of doughnuts. "How do they look, Frank?"

Drebin turned and reached past Homer and Joe to pick up a pair of potted zinnias from his desk. "Not bad. Could use a little more water, though." He put them down and indicated the two newcomers. "And these are the two guys for the sting operation."

"How do you do?" Hocken offered them the plate. "Doughnuts?"

"Yes, I know," said Joe.

Satisfied, Hocken handed the plate to Drebin and asked them, "Do you have any experience with bugs?"

"I'm a janitor," answered Joe, "I spend my whole workday around bugs."

"Our head of Forensics, Dr. Olsen, is working on some new designs," Hocken continued. "He'll get you set up."

"Forensics?" Homer piped up. "Isn't that about investigating crime scenes and examining bodies?"

"True, but he's also a talented technician, brilliant at electronics design," said Drebin as they followed Hocken across the office. "A highly respected and dedicated scientist."

Hocken led them to a corner of the main office near the laboratory entrance, where a middle-aged, lab-coated man with large glasses was fussing over a small table with a narrow ramp leading up to it from the floor. On the table was a large red 'X', a giant block of Swiss cheese, and a miniature hand-cranked crane with its line tied around the cheese block. He was also talking to a skinny boy with bad posture and even larger glasses who watched him closely.

"So you see, Steve, if you really want to build a better mousetrap, it needs to be both irresistible to mice, and absolutely guaranteed to not let them get away."

"Ooh, I totally agree, Dr. Olsen!" Steve replied in a high-pitched and extremely nasal voice. "And I can personally attest to how irresistible a big hunk of cheese is!"

"Exactly! And now we set the trap..." Olsen used the crane to raise the heavy cheese block off the table to dangle directly over the red 'X'. "...and then we wait for the mouse to climb onto the table and stop on the X, and..."

"Ted!" said Hocken.

"Be right with you, Chief!" Olsen lowered the cheese back to the table and told Steve, "We'll continue this later, Steve. And next week, I'll show you why girls go crazy for the smell of baked Camembert."

"Oh, wow! I'll be here for that, Mr. Olsen, you can count on it!"

In his excitement, Steve didn't watch where he was going and stumbled into someone's desk, falling over it and upsetting a box full of old light bulbs that then rolled off and hit the floor one by one, each one exploding with a loud, sharp bang.

Thinking they were under fire from a sniper or something, everybody in Police Squad, including Drebin and Hocken, opened fire in every direction they thought the sniper might be coming from, which was every direction. Police specials, automatics, machine guns, AK-47's - they let loose with every known type and some unknown of firearm, turning the department into a war zone. One detective hauled out a bazooka. Another started throwing grenades. Still another ran screaming across the office with half his clothes on fire. Yet another on a high balcony suffered a fatal belly wound and toppled off onto a table near the bar. Abraham Lincoln dived sideways across the office in slow motion, firing shot after shot from guns in both hands. Bomber planes flew over and dropped dozens of blockbusters.

After several minutes, the murder and mayhem finally calmed down, and Police Squad was a certified disaster area. Stretcher parties carried the heavily wounded out of the department. Small fires still burned, around which the mildly wounded nursed their injuries, one of them also playing a soulful harmonica tune. The rest of the personnel, including Drebin and Hocken, were miraculously untouched, and re-holstered their guns as if such an orgy of violence was all part of the routine.

Homer and Joe very cautiously rose up from behind the overturned, bullet-ridden mousetrap table they'd been hiding behind, Homer wearing an old-style air raid helmet, Joe nervously waving a white flag he found on the floor.  
Steve slowly climbed out from under a desk that was partially burned and still smoking from a flamethrower attack. He turned all around, surveying the carnage, and then turned sheepishly toward Drebin's group and squeaked, "Did _I_ do that?"

Olsen led Hocken through the laboratory door. Drebin, Joe, and Homer followed through the missing wall next to the doorway. "So Ted," said Drebin, "what've you cooked up for us today?"

"The latest in micro-miniature surveillance equipment, Frank." Olsen put on a pair of mitts and retrieved a baking tray from an oven. The tray held electronic devices each no bigger than the head of a thumbtack, and each still steaming. "As soon as these are cool, they'll pick up all sounds within fifteen feet as clearly as if you were standing there listening in person."

Hocken turned to Homer and Joe. "We'll hide these on you as best we can, but be careful. Reports we have say this team doctor is sly, ruthless, and cunning, and he can smell a set-up a mile away."

"That's not all he'd smell on me," said Joe.

"And what happens if he does smell a set-up?" demanded Homer.

Drebin matter-of-factly answered, "Then his goons'll probably drag you into a dark alley and pound you into lumps of mangled flesh, and then throw your remains into a cement mixer to get buried in the foundation of St. Louis' next high-rise."

Homer's heart rate instantly doubled. "No they won't, 'cause I'm gonna be in Seattle!"

Drebin quickly stepped in the way of Homer's intended escape. "You've _got_ to help us stop these drug pushers!" he insisted, passion coloring his voice for the first time in the whole scene. "These maggots, these pus-filled boils on the face of humanity, pushing their disgusting filth on once-honest athletes - they count on us being afraid to stand up to them! It's up to all of us to squash these roaches before our fair city decays into a festering sewer of disease, and all the heroes of America's pastime are reduced to drooling, drugged-up sacks of putrid garbage, rotting in the streets!"

Hocken's face turned green. "Geez, Frank, I just had breakfast!" he moaned.

"Oh, you're in luck, Captain," said Olsen. He reached around to take a small bottle of pills off the lab bench. "I have a new formula that can instantly stop any and all gastro-intestinal ailments. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, acid reflux..."

He doled one out into Hocken's open hand. "Thanks, Ted." He popped it into his mouth. Two seconds later, "Wow, you're right! I feel better already!"

"Just let me know if you experience any of the side effects over the next few days."

"... What side effects?"

"Headaches, sinus pressure, rash, ringing in the ears, hair loss, muscle aches, bloating, toenail fungus, hemorrhoids, migraines, asthma, anemia, bronchitis, swollen glands, high blood pressure, dizziness, heart palpitations, phlebitis, kidney stones, erectile dysfunction..."

Hocken punched himself in the stomach and regurgitated the pill.

"That explains the sudden outbreak of hives after the policemen's ball," noted Drebin.

Homer's anxiety was still high, and Drebin's so-called motivational speech had only ticked him off. "Look, let's say this doctor will even talk to us in the first place!"

"All right," said Drebin, and in unison, he, Homer, Joe, Hocken, and Olsen said, "This doctor will even talk to us in the first place."

"And let's say we can get him to admit he's handing out steroids!"

"All right," said Drebin, and in unison, he, Homer, Joe, Hocken, and Olsen said, "We can get him to admit he's handing out steroids."

"Just how long do we have to keep stringing him along!?"

"Just until he gives you the name of his supplier," replied Hocken. "Our surveillance van will be right outside the stadium. Soon as we get his admission and the supplier's name on tape, our boys'll swoop in and arrest him and bring you right back to the precinct. Even if he does catch onto you, we'll pull you out before anything can happen."

"Unless of course our van gets towed again," added Drebin.

"Didn't you use the fake handicapped tag I issued you?" asked Olsen.

"It fell down the storm grate when I tripped over a garbage can and broke my leg."

Before Homer and Joe could tell them what to go do with their sting operation, they were ushered into a back room to be fitted with the bugs. Minutes later, Drebin, Hocken, and Olsen escorted back to the main office, which other officers were still cleaning up from World War 3. Olsen gave them further instructions. "Our men in the surveillance van will synch their Wi-Fi to your microphones, and then they'll be able to record everything you say and hear."  
Hocken continued. "You'll meet the van outside the stadium at 9:30. Once they get you set up, you go in, find the team doctor, and get the goods on him. Any questions?"

"Yeah," answered Joe, "why'd you put our bugs _there_?"

"Even if the doctor and his goons do get onto you and search you, they'll never find the bugs there," declared Drebin.

"In our armpits?"

"They'll never _want_ to find the bugs there," noted Homer.

"Well," said Olsen as he reached for a full pot of coffee and a mug, "all we can do now is wait and see what happens."

Drebin and Hocken each reached for a mug. Drebin shook Homer's hand and then Joe's. "Good luck, men. Remember, this entire operation depends on you. The entire future of the great American institution of baseball is at stake, and only you can save it."

Homer and Joe grabbed a couple of free mugs. "In that case," said Homer, "I'm gonna need something a lot stronger than coffee."

Hocken smiled. "I'll drink to that!"

He, Drebin, and Olsen started to laugh out loud as Olsen started pouring coffee into Hocken's mug. And then to Homer and Joe's surprise, everyone and everything in Police Squad suddenly froze in place in the middle of what they were doing... Except for the coffee, which continued to pour out of Olsen's pot until Hocken's mug was running over.

"...I guess we're good to go," Homer reluctantly guessed.

He turned to leave, but Joe lingered to hold his mug under Hocken's and catch some of the coffee overflowing out of it. He took a sip as he followed Homer to the door, grimaced, and muttered, "Call this coffee?"

Halfway down the street: "I just had a thought," said Homer.

"You want to tweet it?" asked Joe.

"No, this is an important thought! Myran or somebody else must've found the communicorder by now. Why hasn't he beamed us back home yet? For that matter, we haven't heard from him at all since yesterday."

"Maybe he was abducted by aliens."

"Myran _is_ an alien!"

"So? Why can't aliens abduct other aliens?"

"Why would they _want_ to? They already know what each other's insides look like!"

"You know what I think?" said Homer at a moment of rising dander. "I bet he already found his communicorder, and everybody else beamed home, and they forgot all about us! Or they just decided to leave us behind out of spite! And _you_ didn't help when Jerry called and you completely forgot why we were dragged out here!"

"I know why we're here. We're supposed to bust this baseball doctor for -"

"Not _that_! _Before_ that! Why we were dragged to St. Louis in the first place!"

"To make this novel way longer than it has to be."

" . . . . . Besides that."

"Because we accidentally lost Myran's communicorder, a product of highly advanced alien technology, in a shipment of Good Will clothes that got split up and sent out all over the world, and so now we have to split up and scour the world looking for it."

Homer did a double-take. "You do remember! So why'd you make Jerry think you didn't!?"

"I was hoping then she'd forget why we were out here, and then through her, everybody else would forget why we were out here, and so they'd also forget who lost the communicorder and started this whole mess in the first place."

"Now _there's_ a thought," Homer marveled, amazed at Joe's flash of perverse genius.

"You want to tweet _that_ one?"

They arrived at the Cardinals stadium and saw a plain brown van parked just across the street. They knocked on its side door at 9:30:03.

"You're three seconds late!" hissed the sergeant who opened the door and ushered them inside.

"Great, they're turning it into a running gag," muttered Joe.

"_My_ watch says we're ten seconds early!" protested Homer.

"Never mind!"

It didn't take long to synch up the microphone signals and test the recording equipment. It would've taken even less time if Joe hadn't tried to test it by reciting his favorite poem. His favorite poem was all about different aromas in garbage and their exact sources. It took an extra ten minutes for the sergeant and his partner to recover from their nausea and clean up the mess before they could resume surveillance operations.

Joe and Homer then set out for the stadium entrance. The meeting was supposed to take place in the home team locker room, which was completely dark when they entered. "Shh," whispered Homer to Joe. "Be real quiet. We don't want to scare this doctor away."

Joe nodded his agreement, and the two immediately walked straight into a carefully stacked array of bats that collapsed to the floor with a deafening crash.

Suddenly the lights came on. A door in the far wall immediately opened and a late-middle-aged man whom they guessed flipped a light switch on his side of the door marched into the room with an outraged look. "What is the meaning of this!?" he demanded in a cultured English accent. "Who, may I ask, are you, and why have you come in here unannounced!?"

Homer quickly threw himself into the part. "Let's just say we're enthusiastic baseball fans," he said smoothly. Too smoothly. "The name's Homer. This is Joe."

The man pompously replied, "And _I_ am Doctor Zachary Smith, official medical practitioner for this city's proud baseball team!"

Homer's next line suddenly died in his throat as the doctor's name and his mannerisms made a palpable hit on his memory center. He and Joe gaped at each other, their jaws going slack for a few moments, then Homer blurted, "Doctor _who_!?"

"No, Doctor _Zachary Smith_! Doctor Who is in a different chapter!" Smith sniffed in contempt. "Childish man."

Homer and Joe looked at each other again, then Joe quietly hissed a signal to back away just enough for a quick confab. "Shouldn't this guy be with the robot in chapter 11?" whispered Joe.

"Don't ask me, I didn't write this!" Homer whispered back.

Deciding to continue the sting now and grapple with TV weirdness later, Homer and Joe returned their attention to Smith, and Homer got back into his role. "We know a lot of other enthusiastic baseball fans, too. These other fans also dabble in little games of . . . chance, shall we say?" For added effect that was _really_ unnecessary, Homer fished a coin out of his pocket and started flipping it up and down in his hand. "And the less chance, the better. You know what I mean?"

"Spare me your grade-school theatrics! Are you attempting to entice me into unlawful speculation?"

"No, we're trying to bring you in on some gambling," replied Joe.

Smith glared at Joe like he just got a negative score on a first-grade-level math quiz. "Indeed!" he muttered, dripping with contempt.

With an irritated glance at Joe, Homer continued, "What my friend here is trying to say is that we're looking into the odds on the Cardinals winning their next game."

"The next baseball season doesn't begin for another four months!"

"Why wait til the last minute?" Homer started flipping his coin again as he added, "Besides, we hear you already have the inside dope on how the team's gonna perform next season."

"And we _do_ mean dope," added Joe.

"Let _me_ do the talking!" Homer hissed at Joe through clenched teeth.

Smith's eyes narrowed. "Just one moment! Are you _now_ suggesting that I have been administering illegal substances into my athletes!?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Homer was letting his evasive gangster persona run away with him. "But if you _were_, our friends would like to know about it, so they can figure out the odds better and take better advantage of them. They might even cut you in on the take if you can guarantee the team's performance next season."

"_'Cut me in on the take,' indeed!_" Then there was a few seconds when Smith's outrage gradually abated, to be replaced by a cautiously inquisitive look. No, check that, a cautiously _greedy_ look. "How large a take' do you mean?"

Thinking he finally got his hook in, Homer smirked and "casually" sidled up to Smith and said, "That depends... What sorts of... 'substances' are you administering? And where do you get them from?"

"What does it matter where they come from?"

"Quality, my dear Doctor, quality! The better the substances work, the better the odds. Hurts our bottom line if the stuff you're giving the players is second-rate. Cheap generic knock-off, you know?"

Smith was immediately insulted again. "I'll have you know I administer only the finest and purest supplements that medical science can offer! I accept nothing less than excellence in my profession!"

"Well then! Who's your supplier?"

"That, Sir, is a matter of doctor-patient confidentiality! Well, in this case, doctor-_pharmacist_, but it is still confidential!"

Homer put on a patronizing smirk and leaned close to Joe. "How big a cut were we talking about?" he "casually" asked Joe.

Smith's outraged demeanor slowly abated again as his greed came back. With a sly grin, he said, "Well, I don't suppose it would do any harm -"

"The hell it won't!" snapped a voice from behind the open door. Through it appeared a man in his thirties, wearing a business suit and a very mean look.

"Mr. Garrowitz!" exclaimed Smith, suddenly cranking up to ten on the nervous scale. "What an unexpected pleasure! I wasn't expecting you today!"

"And it's a good thing you weren't, or I'd never find out you were about to sell me out!"

"Sell you out!? My dear sir, perish the thought! I was simply entertaining these two gentlemen -"

Joe looked behind him. "Who came in?"

Homer jabbed his elbow into Joe's ribs and then turned his attention to Garrowitz. "Are you Dr. Smith's supplier?" This operation might be turning out easier than he thought. Melodramatically flipping his coin again, he said, "We were just talking about you. Joe and I got a business proposition for ya."

"And I got one for you," snapped Garrowitz. "Get outta here and forget you ever heard of me _or_ Smith, or your life expectancies are gonna take a big hit!"

He rounded on Smith. "And so'll yours if I catch you trying to double-cross me again!"

Smith quivered in his shoes. "M-m-my dear Mr. Garrowitz, how can you think that I would!?" He thought fast, regained some composure, and added, "Besides, you heard then say their business proposition is for you as well, not just me! We'll _both_ share in the profits of this new venture!" He leaned closer to Garrowitz and slyly murmured, "And I assure you, I can negotiate a much larger percentage for us than they would wish to give."

Garrowitz scowled. "Even if I didn't know you'd grab the biggest percentage for yourself -!"

"Indeed!"

"Shut up!" Smith yelped in fright, lost all bravado, and scurried behind Homer for protection. "You don't do anything to do with our arrangement unless I say so!"

"So who says _he_ is?" asked Homer too smoothly. "_I'm_ asking ya, Garrowitz - or can I call ya by your first name?"

"NO!"

Smith ducked down even lower behind Homer, who also flinched and almost dropped his coin, but he quickly recovered. "Okay-okay! First-name basis comes in good time, and I wanna have that time! And time is money, and that's what we can all make, if you got the goods."

Smith partially crept out into the open and added, "Indeed, Mr. Garrowitz, and why not? The more markets you have for your vitamins, the greater your profits!"

"Vitamins?" repeated Joe. "I thought we were talking about steroids."

Smith spun around and glared in outrage at Joe. "I beg your pardon!?" he demanded. "What gave you the absurd notion that I would ever poison my athletes with performance-enhancing drugs!?"

"The policemen who wired us up to record you admitting you were giving them steroids!"

Joe's annoyance at why Smith would ask such an obvious question lasted for as long as it took him to realize that he said that out loud. His mood then turned to mild depression and he added, "The policemen and wire we weren't supposed to tell you about."

"Joe, do you know the difference between you and bread mold?" muttered Homer.

"No."

"Bread mold's about 70 I.Q. points smarter." And then Homer shoved his coin into one of Joe's nostrils.

Joe sneezed and shot it back out and onto the floor. "Tails, we win," he sniffed.

"More like heads, you lose!" sneered Garrowitz. "You know what I do to narcs?"

"Wait a minute..." Smith turned back to Garrowitz, his face the picture of horrified realization. "You mean you _were_ giving me steroids!? You said they were a new brand of all-natural vitamin supplement!"

"Yeah, cause it was plain as day you'd be stupid enough to believe it, and greedy enough to take em if I offered you a big enough kickback!"

Smith looked like a volcano about to erupt. "HOW DARE YOU!? You DARE to deceive me into aiding and abetting criminal acts!?"

Garrowitz thrust himself to within inches of Smith, towering over him and radiating menace and sneering, "Yeah! What about it!?"

Smith's natural cowardice extinguished his volcano in a split second. "Just making sure of the facts," he stuttered with a meek smile.

Garrowitz suddenly let loose a sharp whistle, and seven lockers opened in unison to reveal seven large, muscular, very mean-looking men surrounding Homer, Joe, and Smith.

"That's new," noted Joe, "usually it's the jocks shoving other guys into the lockers."

"Uh, officers," Homer said nervously into his armpit, "I hope you're listening, 'cause we could use some assistance right now."

"If you're expecting help from the cops, forget it," Garrowitz informed his victims. "All the other doors to this room are locked and barred, and there's a jamming field blocking all your radio signals."

"How'd you know about the bugs?" asked Joe.

"You can't be too careful in my business. And after all the police reports of crazy players Smith's been letting run around, I figured the police would try something like this sooner or later!"

Homer glared at Smith. "Didn't you notice how those vitamins' were making your players act lately!? Violent mood swings, high anxiety, heightened aggression!?"

"That's how they _always_ act as the football season gets closer to the playoffs!"

Garrowitz and the seven anti-dwarfs closed in on them. Homer suddenly decided to take action. He leaped onto a bench and landed in the fighting pose used by actors in those lousy kung fu movies. "I'm warning you creeps!" he shouted. "These hands are registered as deadly weapons!"

"Those hands? Deadly weapons?" Garrowitz smirked.

"That's right," answered Joe, "they hold the camera that records our webcast."

Homer gave Joe an exasperated look. "I don't like you."

"I _loathe_ both of you for putting me in this dire predicament!" Smith muttered darkly.

As one goon came close enough, Homer decided to go for broke. "Hee-YAH!" he screamed as he threw his best karate chop down on the goon's shoulder.

When I say Homer went for broke, I mean he broke his hand.

"That was so funny, I forgot to scream in agony!" he gasped through teeth gritted so tightly they threatened to crack under the pressure.

"We'll remind you in a minute," Garrowitz sneered as his goons closed in.

"Oh, the pain!" Smith wailed. "The pain!"

"Be patient, it's coming!" Garrowitz gloated.

"Not if we end the chapter first," Joe pointed out.

And we did.

**The characters of Frank Drebin, Capt. Hocken, and Ted Olson belong to Paramount Pictures, and were brought to life respectively by Leslie Neilsen, Alan North (in the TV series) and George Kennedy (in the movies), and Ed Williams. Steve belongs to Warner Brothers Television, and was brought to life by Jaleel White. Dr. Smith belongs to Irwin Allen Productions and Fox Television Studios, and this character was originally brought to life by Jonathan Harris. Homer and Joe are my characters and nobody else's.**  
"Who else would want them?"  
**Shut up!**


	17. Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend

**Chapter 16**  
**Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend, or**  
**Jewel Personalities**

Ab wandered the streets of the town looking for charity shops, or any other kind of shop that might have Rupert's sweatpants. She found one with a sign in the window that she thought said "Sweats", and hurried inside to ask about it. The clerk patiently explained that it was in fact a candy store. Ab left, disappointed at first, but quickly cheered up by the bag of bon-bons she just bought.

As she resumed her search, she had no idea she was being followed. Not by Feathers or Phil, by two other people, one of whom was a familiar deranged clown. Yes, it was her old fiend, the Joker, but this time he was accompanied by a woman dressed from head to toe in a skin-tight, jet black catsuit, complete with fake cat ears and a tail.

As they paused to watch her behind the corner of a building, the woman asked, "Where's the other one you told me about?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's somewhere nearby, Catwoman," he replied, "and one of them must have our diamonds!"

"_My_ diamonds, Joker!" she retorted. "_I_ stole them, and then I made the mistake of trusting _you_ to hold onto them while you stole the rest!"

"Mistake!? Why you fractious feline, you know perfectly well the buyer wanted them all in one package! And how was I to know the Caped Crusaders would find me so quickly!?"

"How can they _not_ find you so quickly!? The way you carry on, laughing like a hyena, pulling pranks left and right, you leave a trail of whoopee cushions and squirting flowers a mile wide! You might as well put up a billboard saying, 'Here I am! Come and get me!'"

"Hunh, you're one to talk! You really _do_ want Batman to find you, you're so infatuated with him! Don't think I haven't noticed that perfume you're wearing. Eau de Guano, am I right?"

"So what if I am smitten with him? You think it's just about hormones?"

The way she started wrapping her slinky body around the nearest lamppost hinted that the answer was yes. But: "Why, when I finally get Batman wrapped around my paw, then all of his secrets are as good as mine. The Batcave and all its technology, the Batmobile - the fastest car in the world - and all the money he must have tucked away to afford all his crimefighting gadgets."

"Ooh," grinned the Joker, "aren't we the gold-digging gato!"

She purred loudly and seductively and replied, "Who needs to settle for gold? With Batman and all his secrets in my power, the whole world will be my scratching post!" as her arm snaked up the lamppost and then slid back down, claws out.

They made the most horrifying screech imaginable as they raked down the side of the lamppost, giving both her and the Joker instant, agonizing migraines.

As soon as her head cleared, she muttered, "Sorry, forgot this was a _metal_ post."

"Oh, if you ever do that again, I swear I'll have you de-clawed!"

Catwoman's attention was suddenly drawn away: "Never mind that, look, she's crossing the street. C'mon!"

Like alley cats - well, one alley cat and one certified nut-job -

"Watch it, buster!" snapped the Joker.

You know, that gag's getting old - the two crooks made their move as Ab started across the street. Unfortunately, Ab failed to notice she wasn't at the crosswalk yet, that she was crossing at an angle right through one of the busiest intersections in town, or that the light hadn't changed. Several cars had to swerve wildly to avoid hitting her while she tried her best to remember which direction she wanted to go. Unable to make up her tiny little mind, she just zigzagged around the middle of the intersection. She finally decided to head back toward the candy store and retrieve her bearings, and ended up going the wrong way and winding up on the opposite corner of the intersection. When she reached the curb, she looked back and saw dozens of cars piled up in the street and on the sidewalks, and dozens of people shouting angrily, cursing, and waving their fists in her direction. She watched them for several moments and tried to figure out who they were mad at before giving up and moving on.

Meanwhile, the Joker and Catwoman did their own intersection maneuvers with much greater awareness of their situation and much greater anxiety, dodging cars and trucks and SUV's faster than an expert texter's thumbs. Just when they thought they couldn't dodge anymore, one last leap got them onto the opposite sidewalk, miraculously in two intact pieces.

As soon as they realized they survived the busiest intersection in town, the Joker let out a triumphant whoop in unison with Catwoman's feline victory howl. "Who the villain!?" he shouted.

"_We_ the villains!" she shouted back, and they gave each other an enthusiastic high-five.

And then a teenager speeding on a so-called hoverboard knocked them both over on their backsides.

Oblivious to everything happening around her - business as usual for her -

"What do you mean by that!?" Ab demanded.

. . . Okay, there's a first time for everything . . . Ab wandered the streets for over two hours, asking in every clothing store she caught sight of about a second-hand pair of sweatpants with an alien gadget in one of its pockets. Sometimes, the store owners humored her and politely answered that they did not take in old clothes from Good Humor, the Starvation Army, or even the Coast Guard.

By now she was starting to get hungry. Having no knowledge of local restaurants, she walked up to a policewoman and asked him where the nearest place to eat was.

"It's this diner right behind me."

"Gee, thanks!" Ab answered gleefully and went inside. Unfortunately, it was the lunch rush and she couldn't see any empty tables. She wandered among the tables until the occupants of one caught her attention. They were two men, one full-grown, the other teenage. The full-grown one was covered head to toe in a dark blue suit, cowl, and cape. The teenager wore a bright red suit and cape and a black mask over his eyes.

"You look familiar," she declared. "I never forget a face! Except that one time when I dyed my hair black and didn't recognize myself."

"Miss Normal!" greeted Batman. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Please, come and join us," invited Robin, indicating the empty chair next to him. "Have you eaten lunch yet?"

She took the empty chair as she replied, "No, I've been too busy trying to find something."

"What kind of something?"

"Ummmm . . . gee, that's a good question. It's either a pair of pants with an alien cellphone in them..." She reached into her coat pocket. "...or the owner of this bag of diamonds."

The Caped Crusaders' interest was quickly piqued. "Where did you get this?" demanded Batman.

"We think the Joker left it in our car after he took it."

Batman tut-tutted. "No doubt part of the haul from the Clown Prince's latest crime wave."

"Gosh Batman, Commissioner Gordon said almost a dozen homes and jewelry stores have been robbed in the last week," said Robin. "How will we find out which one these came from?"

"If indeed they all came from the same store. But that's not what's important right now. The Joker is still at large, and he's certain to come after these diamonds!"

"Holy target on her back!"

"There is?" Ab started twisting her head around in different ways to try to see her own back.

"Merely a figure of speech, Miss Normal," Batman said patiently. "But an apt one, nonetheless. The first thing to do is see you safely home. On the way, we'll contact Commissioner Gordon that we have the diamonds and that he should let the news agencies know it. That will draw the Joker's wrath toward us instead of you."

"And when he comes after us," declared Robin, "we'll be ready for him!"

"Precisely, old chum!"

A server came to their table with a large, covered tray. "Here's your order, gentlemen. One roast chicken with new potatoes and steamed broccoli."

"Thank you, Miss," replied Batman. The server left, and Batman said to Ab and Robin, "A little nourishment is in order before we set our trap for the Joker."

"An army marches on its stomach, right Batman?" agreed Robin.

The tray cover started clanging loudly.

"And plays the cymbals, too," noted Ab.

Batman pulled the cover off the tray, and to their astonishment it revealed a fully-feathered bird struggling furiously in a bed of potatoes and broccoli. It was very much alive, tied up and gagged with oven twine, and mad as a customer waiting for hours at the DMV who finally gets to the window only to have them shut it for closing time.

"Holy underdone! I've heard of chicken served rare, but this is ridiculous!"

"Except this isn't chicken, Robin! It's a rare yellow-bellied McAllister's parrot from the Amazon basin!"

"And her name is Feathers!" exclaimed Ab. She un-gagged her avian amigo and said, "I didn't know you got a job in a restaurant!"

"JOB!? That psycho chef grabbed me in the alley just as I was climbing out of the sewer!"

"Out of the _sewer_!?" Robin instantly lost his appetite.

"Then he tied me up and dumped me on this plate, shoved mixed vegetables around me, and he was gonna shove me into the oven until the catfish tried to escape! Except it wasn't a real catfish, it was a cat he stuck a snorkel mask and swim fins on! And while he was chasing it, his assistant - whose glasses I swear are even thicker than his skull - covered me up and handed me off to the waitress shouting 'Order up!'"

"That's terrible!" cried Ab. "And what's worse, they forgot the gravy!"

A sudden disturbance exploded from the kitchen door, and a tabby cat wearing a snorkel mask and swim fins raced into the dining area. Right behind it was the head chef waving a huge cleaver like a maniac and screaming, "STOP THAT CATFISH PLATTER!"

Feathers screamed, wriggling out of the last of her twine, and shot into the air just as the cat leaped onto the table and pounced on the platter. Without losing any momentum, the cat leaped onto Ab's head and launched himself into the air after Feathers. The chef also leaped onto the table and after both of them, his swinging cleaver slicing through the cord holding the small ceiling light over the table, crashing it down and puncturing the ketchup and mustard bottles in the condiment tray, adding red and yellow colors to the Caped Crusaders' costumes.

The Chase ran all around the dining area, causing murder and mayhem on a scale not seen since the last chapter. Food, ceiling lights, feathers (proper and common nouns), and the occasional table flew everywhere. Somewhere in the midst of it, Feathers and the cat temporarily eluded the chef and chased each other back into the kitchen, but it wasn't long before the chef regained his bearings and charged toward the kitchen doors, until Batman barred his way.

"Sir, please control yourself!" Batman exclaimed. "This conduct is completely inappropriate for any public gathering place that doesn't involve sports!"

"Back off, creep!" bellowed the chef. "I ain't lost a dinner special yet, and I don't aim to start now!" And he roughly pushed past Batman and ran through the kitchen doors, waving his cleaver and screaming a battle cry...

...that died in his throat when he saw Feathers and the cat standing together by the main stove, both casually twirling full key rings in their appendages. The delay had been only a few seconds, but somehow it was enough time for them to join forces, free every animal that was being used for the lunch menu, and tie up and gag the chef's entire kitchen and wait staff. The head chef now stood alone facing an army of cats, dogs, non-poultry birds, rats, mice, lizards, toads, horses, goats, and two alligators, all armed with every other cooking utensil in the kitchen and wearing the most evil grins imaginable.

Feathers also had her talons on a large pot overflowing with brownish ooze. "And _we_ won't forget the gravy!"

We won't describe details of the vengeance that followed, otherwise this story would need a Mature rating. We _will_ say however that Batman, Robin, and Ab watched it all from the kitchen doors.

"Perhaps I should have consulted yelp before choosing this restaurant," Batman lamented.

"Holy lynch mob!"

"Holy _lunch_ mob," corrected Ab.

After things finally quieted down in the restaurant - and the restaurant was closed for health violations - and the restaurant staff was sent to intensive care - Ab, Feathers, and the Dynamic Duo got takeout from a burger joint and headed back to Poker Bluffs in the Batmobile.

"Maybe it's a good thing Phil isn't here," said Ab, giving Feathers a disappointed look. "I don't think he would've liked what you and your friends did back there."

"I'll second that," agreed Robin. He winced and added, "I didn't even know you could _do_ that with a melon baller!"

"What _we_ did!? What about what those new-cuisine Nazis tried to do to us!? You saw the chainsaws and the guillotine, you think they were just for show!? And somebody had a recipe for rat sorbet tacked up on the wall!"

"I would say there's more than enough blame to share between both sides of the argument," said Batman. "A dispute best left up to the courts." To Ab, he added, "As for your friend Phil - Robin, call the local police station on the mobile bat-phone, have them be on the lookout for him and let him know where Abigail is."

"Roger, Batman." He was about to pick up the phone when they heard a police siren turn on behind them.

"Wow, that was fast!" exclaimed Ab.

"Curious," mused Batman, "I wonder what they want?"

He pulled over to the side of the road, as did the police car, and a lanky man in a deputy sheriff's uniform came out of the car, adjusted his pants in a way that people sometimes do when they try to suggest manliness but ultimately fail to do so, and sauntered over to the Batmobile, shouting in a southern accent, "All right! Hold it right there, nobody move!"

He reached Batman's door and said, "All right, buddy, where's the fire?"

"Far be it from me to argue with an officer of the law performing his duty, but I'm quite sure I wasn't speeding," Batman replied. "According to the Batmobile's speedometer, we were only going thirty-five miles per hour."

"That's right! Thirty-five miles an hour in a four mile an hour zone! A clear case of reckless driving if I ever saw one!" announced the officer, whose uniform, by the way, bore the name "Fife." Here we go again. "That's at least a five hundred dollar fine or a night in the hoos-kow! Now, are ya gonna come along quietly," he paused, sniffing loudly and adjusting his pants in the same manner again, "or do I have ta get tough with ya?"

"_Four_ miles an hour?" exclaimed Robin. "I've never heard of a speed zone like that on an open road!"

"I must admit," added Batman, "four also seems to me an odd number for a speed zone."

"I thought four was an even number," said Ab.

"It is," admitted Robin.

"See!?" she crowed triumphantly. "And everybody thinks I don't remember anything from school!"

To Fife, Batman said, "Perhaps we could double-check the speed zone sign?"

"Oh, pleadin' ignorance of the law, eh?" replied Strife. "All right, smart guy, I'll prove it to ya. You just follow my car nice and slow." So saying, he returned to his car, started it up, did a 180, and drove off back the way they came at an agonizingly slow pace. Batman copied Fife's maneuver and his turtle's pace until both of them stopped beside a road sign on the left side of the road facing away from them. Strife got out of his car, walked around to face the sign, and pointed at it. "There ya are, Sporty! Now don't tell me you didn't see that!"

Sure enough, the sign said, "Speed Limit 4." However, Feathers and both Caped Crusaders strongly suspected that the only reason it said "Speed Limit 4" was because a large patch of snow was covering up the second digit.

Ab didn't suspect a thing. "Gee, Officer, we're awfully sorry we broke the speed limit. I hope this won't go on my record. It's already got so much dust and scratches on it that the music sounds funny."

Robin, ever striving to follow Batman's example, was careful never to be judgmental about anyone's state of mind - or mindlessness in this case - and to offer helpful suggestions to people with problems. "Why not replace it with a CD?"

"Oh no, not these days! With the present uncertainty in the global markets as a result of the increase in national debts, interest rates on CD's are too volatile, especially for those with long-term maturities. At my age and with my current employment situation and the fact that I'm renting, money market funds are a much safer investment at this time."

Feathers gaped at her for several silent seconds, before finally shouting, "Who are you and what've you done with Ab!?"

She had to think about it for a few seconds, and then she answered, "I took myself out of the Batmobile and walked over to this speed limit sign, and stopped right here where I'm standing." She looked down at her feet and noted, "Now that's weird! How did I manage to get exactly where I'm standing?"

"Oh, there you are."

Batman turned to the deputy. "Officer Fife, did you notice the large patch of snow on this sign?"

"Huh? Oh, that! Yeah, I was gonna clean it off 'til I saw you hot-rodders roarin' by."

"If I may?" When Fife didn't raise any objections, Batman reached up and wiped the snow off. Sure enough, there was a zero underneath.

"Well, how 'bout that?" exclaimed Fife. "Speed Limit _40_!"

"No kidding!" Feathers retorted. "So I guess we weren't speeding after all, huh!?"

"Uh . . . yeah! Course not!" declared Fife. "You were goin' _under_ the speed limit! Holdin' up all the traffic behind you! That's a thirty dollar fine and a slap on the wrist!" He scribbled out a ticket, ripped it off his pad, grabbed Batman's hand, and slapped his wrist with the ticket. "Now, don't let me catch any of you pullin' a stunt like that again!"

He started to return to his car, but stopped and looked at Batman and Robin again. "By the way, love your outfits, but ain't it a little late for Halloween?" He finished getting into his car and drove away, sirens blaring.

"Gosh," said Robin, "maybe he's been working too hard."

The rest of the drive to Poker Bluffs was uneventful, except for when a student driver cut off the Batmobile, and Feathers launched into a tirade so salty that Robin had to plug his fingers into Ab's ears. Somehow, she got the idea that Robin's gloves had earbuds built in, and she asked him to turn up the volume.

Finally, the Batmobile pulled up to the curb beside a familiar-looking house. "This is your home?" asked Batman.

"No, this is Rupert's home. My car's parked nearby. Soon as I remember what it looks like, I can get home from here."

Feathers saw the Caped Crusaders' alarmed looks. "Don't worry, I know what it looks like. And I know where she lives."

"_I_ know where I live!" she protested. "And I know where _you_ live! And I know where Rupert lives!" She waved her hand at Rupert's house. "_Duh!_"

"All right - all right!" Feathers waved her wings in surrender. "You know where we all live! Fine!"

"And I wonder if any of them are back yet?" With that question, Ab and the rest got out of the Batmobile. Feathers was small enough to get through Digger's pet door and unlock the front door for the rest. She perched herself on Ab's head as the rest entered the house - she was in the mood for a soft perch.

"Hello!?" Ab called out. "Rupert!? Ima!? Jerry!? Luuu-cy!?"

Feathers gave her a strange look. "Lucy doesn't live here. Neither does Ricky."

"Then why did Rhoda bring all that red hair dye last week?"

"She tops off her turtle wax with it for when she's weeding the mp4 converter."

"Hair dye in turtle wax?" asked Robin.

"Weeding the mp4 converter?" asked Batman.

"Don't ask," replied Feathers. "Just, _don't_ ask!"

"I don't think anyone's here," said Ab. "I don't get it; somebody must've found the communicorder by now."  
"SHH!" hissed Feathers. Which is just as shocking as Ab spilling the beans about their secret mission, since a parrot's beak can't shape itself to make a shushing sound.

"Communicorder?" asked Batman.

"Nothing! It's nothing!" snapped Feathers.

"It's not nothing!" Ab protested. "It's an all-purpose alien tool that could destroy the world if we don't find it!"

"A SECRET all-purpose alien tool!" Despite having no teeth, Feathers' exclamation sounded just like it was through teeth grinding themselves into powder.

" . . . Oh yeah." Ab turned to Batman and Robin. "It's a secret. So remember not to remember what we just talked about."

"I'm sorry, Abigail," replied Batman, "but if there is any possibility that this communicorder of yours really could destroy the world, it very much becomes our responsibility to ensure that it doesn't. Robin and I have sworn to protect all law-abiding citizens from any threats to freedom and democracy, be they vicious criminals or technology run amok!"

"Oh, it's not running amok. It got lost in a pair of sweatpants. And you shouldn't swear! It's not nice!" She turned and gave Feathers a hard look. "I'm looking at you, Feathers!" She made a two-fingered sign pointing at her own eyes, and then thrust them toward the fowl-beaked bird.

"Ooh, if _I_ had fingers..." Feathers muttered darkly.

"Maybe one of your friends left a message," suggested Robin.

"I'll check the voice mail," said Feathers, taking off from Ab's head toward the phone.

"And I'll check the transmat," said Ab, heading toward the basement.

"Right - _NO!_" Feathers shrieked, pulling a tight Immelmann turn and rocketed toward her, but too late to stop Ab disappearing down the basement door. Perplexed, the Dynamic Duo followed both of them, catching up just as Ab reached the transmat controls and started looking for the New Message light.

Batman and Robin gaped at the broad, futuristic stage and the linked control console that was clearly more advanced even than anything their Batcave had to offer. "This is your . . _transmat_?" Batman asked Ab. "This appears to be a highly advanced technological device! What does it do?"

"It can beam you instantly from any place on Earth to any other place." She leaned closer to Batman and whispered, "But don't tell anyone, it's another secret."

Feathers violently face-palmed herself - well, face-_winged_, but you get the idea. "First the communicorder, now this! Geez Ab, why not tell them Myran's an alien and Chip's a robot while you're at it!"

"You have alien and robot friends?" asked a surprised Batman.

Feathers face had that look that said, _Someone shoot me._

"Don't worry, Feathers," Robin assured her, "Batman and I can keep a secret. We've had a lot of practice."

"And it's easy to see why such a device should be a secret," added Batman. "It could be a terrible weapon if it ever fell into the wrong hands."

"Then keep Ab's hands off it!" shouted Feathers. "She'd probably beam us to the center of the Earth by accident!"

"Oh, that's silly!" insisted Ab. "You can't get to the center of the Earth by beaming with a transmat! Everybody knows you have to _lick_ your way to the center!"

Feathers had to sit on the console staring at Ab for several moments before she finally got it, whereupon she told her, "Ab, Earth isn't a lollipop."

"Then why is there a big stick sticking out of it at the North Pole?"

"Abigail," interrupted Batman, "you mean your friends used this to go in search of your missing 'communicorder'? Where exactly did they go?"

"I can tell you," answered Feathers. "Ab, Phil, and I were going to Brooklyn. The others went to Atlantic City, Houston, St. Louis, and Athens."

"Holy world tour!"

"Perhaps we can use this device to send one of us to each location in turn to contact your friends and learn what they've found so far," said Batman.

"Don't look at me!" exclaimed Feathers. "Even if I _did_ know how it works, these wings aren't built for handling tech!"

"That's all right, Feathers. Even though the technology is advanced, I think I can deduce the basic operating principles."

"_Seriously_?"

"Yes . . . " Batman's superbly keen intellect began sorting out and identifying the controls: "Yes, this activates the matter transmitter . . This sets the destination, using a base-eight coordinate system with this house as reference zero, so I'll have to convert from our latitude/longitude system."

"But that means you'll have to stay here and operate it, Batman," Robin pointed out. "And that means I'm the one to go!"

"Not so fast, Robin! Either Abigail or Feathers will have to go with you. Their friends might be suspicious if a total stranger approaches them alone."

"Don't look at me for this either!" Feathers exclaimed again. "I don't travel by anything that might put my wing where my head's supposed to be!"

"Oh, you're such a worry-wart!" chided Ab. "C'mon Robin, this'll be fun!"

She and Robin jumped onto the transmat stage. "Robin, keep your bat-communicator open. Once you and Abigail make contact with her friends, signal me and I'll transport you back here."

"Where are we going first, Batman?"

"Athens. First in alphabetical order."

"Just barely. Only by its third letter."

"Now that we've got today's spelling lesson out of the way..." grumbled Feathers.

"Stand by, Robin, Miss Normal," announced Batman as he poised his hand over the controls.

"Ah-ah-ah! Don't touch that dial!" cackled a familiar voice from the basement stairs.

Batman and Feathers spun around to see the Joker perched halfway up the stairs, aiming a crazy-looking gun at them. "Oh no, not him again!" cried Feathers.

"Yes, me again, your old pal, the Joker! And I wouldn't try flying away if I were you. This gun fires my own special recipe of highly-concentrated laughing gas. One whiff, and you'll truly laugh yourselves to death! A-hahahahaha!"

"And if _that_ doesn't kill you," purred another familiar voice appearing behind him, "_my_ gun fires darts containing extract of the rare poisonous pussy-willows of Lower Persia, which cause paralysis and death within minutes." "Holy two-for-one!" exclaimed Robin. "Catwoman _and_ the Joker!"

"_Cat_-woman!?" squeaked Feathers. "This is now officially my worst nightmare come true!"

"I thought your worst nightmare was about being locked overnight in a bedding store just before a big sale on feather pillows," said Ab.

"Not helping!" Feathers muttered through gritted beak.

"All right, enough witty dialogue," snapped Catwoman. "Where are my diamonds?"

"_Our_ diamonds!" the Joker retorted.

"Where neither of you will never get them," declared Batman. "Safely locked away in my utility belt!"

"So? Hand it over," replied Catwoman. With a suggestive leer, she added, "Lord knows how long I've wanted to get your belt off!"

Batman cringed. "Catwoman, _please_! There are young people here!"

"Holy prudishness, Batman!" moaned Robin. "I had sex education in high school!"

"So did I!" added Ab. "The homework was sure different from my other classes!"

Feathers threw a great big, theatrical kiss. "G'night, everybody!"

"As I was _saying_," impatience radiating from her, "hand over your belt!"

"If you insist," Batman acquiesced. He reached around his back to the belt's rear clip, and for several seconds made a show of tugging without success.

"Well!?" snapped the Joker.

"My apologies, the clip seems to be stuck," he replied through increasingly clenched teeth. "I think I've . . almost . . _got_ it!" With that last outburst, Batman's arm whipped around and threw a small pellet to the floor, whereupon it exploded and released a thick cloud of bat-gas between him and the two crooks.

Joker and Catwoman instinctively leaped back, and perhaps be reflex, Joker fired his gas gun into the cloud. Batman saw it and, now no longer able to be sure which part of the expanding cloud was Joker's lethal laughing gas, he and Feathers retreated backwards and found themselves on the transmat stage with Ab and Robin.

"Circle around! Get him!" shouted Catwoman. She and Joker split up around both sides of the gas cloud, to the other side of the console. Thinking she had a clear shot, Catwoman fired her dart gun at Robin. Robin expertly dodged, the dart hit the back of the stage, ricocheted off the impenetrable wall, then ricocheted off an old metal saw hanging on the back wall, and plunged itself needle-first into the console.

Small explosions and sparks started erupting from the console. Electricity arced. Startled, and fearing a big explosion might happen, Joker and Catwoman quickly backed away from it, taking them onto the stage as well. And then somehow, the sparking console activated, and everyone transformed into beams of hyper-energy and vanished.

Ab, Feathers, Batman, and Robin were amazed by the experience, but at least they were prepared for it. Joker and Catwoman could hardly believe what just happened to them. For a few incredible seconds, they experienced a strange disorientating sensation of every cell in their bodies being bathed in energy, and now they were in a completely different location from where they had been only moments before. Where there had once been the interior of a darkened cellar, now they were standing in the middle of a deserted, dilapidated street in a foreign city. Completely forgetting about the diamonds or their captives, the two costumed crooks stared around them, mouths hanging open, until Feathers finally broke the silence with, "Well I hope you're satisfied! _Now_ what are we gonna do!?"

Catwoman stared in no particular direction with a completely dumbstruck expression. " . . . . What the hell just happened?"

"Believe it or not, Catwoman," Robin replied, "we've just been beamed to Athens, Greece by technology far beyond the understanding of ordinary men. Batman, of course, is no ordinary man!"

"Please Robin, modesty."

" . . . This is _Athens_!?" exclaimed Joker.

Batman then took a good look around and realized, "No, this _isn't_ Athens! This architecture is Eastern European, not Greek!" He scowled at Catwoman. "Your poison dart not only activated the transmat, it must have shifted the coordinates, by several hundred miles at least!"

"Well don't just stand there!" Joker held his gun back up, but with a lot less confidence this time. "Beam us back!"

"My dear Joker," Batman retorted in exasperation, "how can I do that when the controls are back in Poker Bluffs!?"

"And something tells me these people coming out of the alleys with machine guns want us to stay around for a while," Ab commented, referring to the dozen or so shady, uniformed characters coming out the alleys with machine guns. As the gun-toting goons surrounded them, she greeted them, "Hi! Can you tell us how to get to Athens? We seem to be lost."

" . . . Wait a minute . ." murmured the Joker. "Catwoman, could it be!?"

"Yes . . ! Those uniforms . . They work for Central Control!"

To Ab, Feathers, and the Caped Crusaders' surprise, Joker approached the menacing gunmen as if greeting an old friend. "Fellas! It's us, the Joker and Catwoman! Your Central Control hired us to steal the diamonds you wanted!"

"You _gotta_ be kidding me!" Feathers blurted.

"Holy coincidence!" Robin blurted.

"I doubt there's anything holy about this coincidence, old chum," Batman replied.

The lead goon addressed the Joker and Catwoman. "If that's true, where are the diamonds?"

Like a schoolchild tattling on somebody, Joker grinned and pointed to Batman. "He's got them.

Every machine gun cocked bolts and focused on Batman and his friends. "What do we do, Batman?" asked Robin.

"I'm afraid we have little choice." Batman slowly reached into one of his utility belt compartments and pulled out the sack of diamonds, and placed them in Catwoman's waiting paw.

Catwoman smirked. "All that's left now is to decide what to do with you."

"I just had a marvelous idea about that!" sneered the Joker.

"I'm all ears," she purred, stroking one of her fake cat ears.

"But I'm afraid it will take a while to set up, so..." The Joker turned to their captives and said, "...you should all get a good night's sleep!"

He fingered the strange-looking flower on his lapel, and a cloud of green gas sprayed out of it into the faces of their captives. After a few moments of coughing and choking, their eyes grew heavy and they dropped to the ground unconscious.

"Wakey-wakey, Batman."

Catwoman's purr into his ear brought Batman back to consciousness, whereupon the first thing he noticed was that his utility belt was gone. The next thing was that he was held upright with his wrists chained around a large lever mounted just above his head on a thick post. He, Catwoman, Joker, and the post were standing on a wide deck attached to an above-ground swimming pool. The Joker was holding his utility belt.

He then saw a giant funnel mounted directly over the center of the pool, attached to a broad metal pipe running all the way from the bottom of a nearby water tower. And at the bottom of the pool were Robin, Ab, and Feathers, all tied up and slowly coming to.

One weird part was that Batman could feel something attached to his upper back, right between his shoulder blades. It felt metallic, with electrodes coming out and sticking to his skin. But even weirder was that the bottom and sides of the pool appeared to be lined with a thick, golden brown . . pastry?

"Robin! Miss Normal! Feathers!" he called down to them. "Are you all right?"

"I think so, Batman," groaned Robin. "But . . What is this!?"

"_Pie crust!?_" exclaimed Feathers.

"You like it?" asked Catwoman. Annoyance creeped into her voice as she added, "It took us all night and the better part of today to build this."

"You can't rush genius, Catwoman!" retorted the Joker. "And this is my most _deliciously_ ingenious trap ever!"

"It's been said that there's a fine line between genius and madness, Joker," retorted Batman. "No need to ask which side of the line _you're_ on! Just what kind of obscene fate have the two of you planned this time!?"

Catwoman huffed in exasperation. "Use your eyes, Batman! There's an old water tower with a pipe flowing to a giant funnel over an empty swimming pool with your friends tied up at the bottom - _you_ figure it out!"

"I've already figured out the obvious! But where the Joker is involved, we know full well that nothing is obvious!"

"As a matter of fact, just watch!" With that, before Batman could react, the Joker grabbed the lever and pulled it down, but just for a second. There was a loud shaking and gurgling in the pipe, and seconds later, instead of water, a huge blob of creamy white goop dropped out of the funnel. It missed the captives by mere inches, close enough to splatter some of it on them.

Ab licked around her lips, getting enough of it into her mouth to identify it. "Banana cream!"

"Precisely!" the Joker crowed. "47,000 gallons of it, all in that water tower! You see, instead of four and twenty blackbirds, this pie is only going to have three birds: A robin, a parrot, and a cuckoo!" He finished off his wisecrack with another maniacal laugh.

Ab looked around. "I don't see any cuckoo in here," she noted. "I don't even see a clock." She licked her lips again. "Could we have apple instead?"

"Trust me," muttered Feathers, "in your case, bananas are much more appropriate."

"I have another question," declared Batman. "Why am I not in the pool with them?"

"That's my part of your 'obscene fate'," said Catwoman. "I'm giving you a chance to save yourself and your friends, Batman."

He only needed a moment to decide, "To save their lives, anything, Catwoman!"

"Marry me."

"Except that."

Catwoman shrugged nonchalantly. "It's your choice, Batman. You can either marry me, or you can pull the lever and smother your friends in the world's biggest banana cream pie."

"Then you've made a mistake by lashing me to the lever! There is nothing you can do that will force me to pull it down, and if it takes every ounce of my strength, I will not allow anyone else to do so!"

"Oh really?" grinned the Joker. He then pulled out a small remote control and pressed the big red button.

The gadget on Batman's back instantly sent hundreds of volts of electricity into him, and his arms spasmed downward, pulling the lever with them and sending a torrent of cream plummeting into the pool-sized pie crust.

"My patented king-size joy buzzer sends electricity directly into your nervous system, causing involuntary contraction of the arm muscles! So what's it going to be? A wedding cake, or a funeral pie - er!"

"Ew!" groaned Catwoman. "You're really stretching with that one."

"Batman!" cried Robin. "Fight it, Batman! Don't give in!"

Judging by Batman's distorted face and uncontrolled spasms, easier said than done.

Robin, Ab, and Feathers quickly snaked themselves away from the torrent, but the cream quickly spread across the pool's bottom, and it was clear they were only delaying the inevitable.

**"Horror of horrors!"**  
**"Robin the Boy Wonder to be creamed in a giant pie!?"**  
**"And an impossible choice for Batman!"**  
**"To seal the fate of his old chum, or seal the bond of matrimony with his archenemy!?"**  
**"Will Catwoman be Mrs. Batman!? Will the Joker have the last laugh on Robin!?"**  
**"How can the Dynamic Duo possibly escape this ti-!?"**  
**Hey, what's the big idea!? _I'm_ supposed to end these chapters, not you!**  
**Ab and Feathers are copyright to RC Gumby Productions. Batman, Robin, the Joker, and Catwoman were created by Bob Kane, Bill Finger, and Jerry Robinson, their characters are owned by DC Comics, and their old TV show is copyright to Greenway Productions et al. With thanks to Adam West as Batman, Burt Ward as Robin, Cesar Romero as the Joker, and Julie Newmar as this version of TV's Catwoman. Plus William Dozier as the man-who-would-be-narrator.**  
**And don't forget the cameo by Deputy Fife, copyright to Danny Thomas Enterprises and CBS Television Distribution, with thanks to Don Knotts for bringing him to life.**  
**"But will Robin, Ab, and Feathers still have life!? Log on next time to find out!"**  
**"Same Bat-time! Same Bat-website!"**  
_**Will you get outta here!**_

"Voiceover artists," grumbled Feathers. "Can't live with 'em, can't fire 'em 'cause of the unions..."


	18. The Games That Spies Play

**Chapter 17**  
**The Games That Spies Play, or**  
**You Bet Your Life, Because It's In Jeopardy**

For those of you with short-term memories, or those who got bored with the whole thing and stopped reading for a long time, you may want to re-read chapter 9, since the events in this chapter pick up from there. For those of you who can't... What's the matter, you can't take fifteen minutes out of your busy schedule to read something!? Your Facebook account isn't going anywhere! All 548 of your online friends and their posts and likes will still be there when you log on again, and you'll actually be able to read chapter 17 of this novel without being totally confused about what the hell is going on!

"Focus, narrator! _Focus_!" snapped Ima.

... Alright fine, I'll do a recap! Toward the end of chapter 9, Ima was kidnapped by two spies while she was looking for Myran's communicorder in Greece. When we last saw her, the spies rode away with her on horseback.

Got it? Good. To continue...

The small, twin-engine plane carrying Ima finally began to descend. After reaching Athens in what had to be the worst horse ride she ever had (actually, it was the _only_ horse ride she ever had), she was dragged onto the plane by her captors, those two ex-TV-Nazis-turned-second-string-spies Klink and Schultz, infamous, incomparable, insufferable, incapable, inane -

"Narrator, you go too far!" warned Klink.

"For once, I agree," muttered Ima.

Well, ex-CU-U-U-USE ME! They flew for hours, Ima tied to the back seat the entire time without so much as a complementary drink or bag of peanuts. "Or a pillow! This seat's cushions are as thin as crackers!"

With an evil grin, Klink replied from the pilot's seat, "We're so glad you enjoyed your flight. Thank you for flying Central Control Airlines, the unfriendly skies!"

From the co-pilot's seat, Schultz added, "And if you have our frequent flyer plan, you'll be happy to know you've earned 733 miles on this flight!"

"Schultz!"

Klink's sharp retort jogged Schultz's memory: "Oh, that's right." To Ima, he said, "We changed from a miles-based system to cost-based. Which I'm afraid means that, since this was a free flight, you didn't earn anything."

Ima's voice gushed sarcasm as she muttered, "I feel _so_ cheated."

"_Just_ man the controls, Schultz!" snapped Klink. "We're about to land!"

"_Ja wohl_, Herr Klink!" Schultz snapped to attention and grabbed for the controls. Within mere minutes, the plane touched down and taxied to a stop.

"Boy, that was fast!" noted Ima. "How'd you manage to land so quickly?"

"Easy," answered Schultz, "nobody else wants to land here."

"And where's here?"

"You'll find out," sneered Klink.

They untied Ima and frog-marched her off the plane at gunpoint, and she suddenly felt a belated case of airsickness as she now saw the "airport." The terminal was nothing more than a run-down mobile home. The radar tower looked like a hodgepodge of 1960's TV aerials. The runway was just an old gravel road barely long enough to land a paper airplane, let alone a real one, and it was bordered on one end by quicksand, the other end by a tire fire, and both sides by minefields.

"I found out, all right, and I wish I hadn't! How'd you even land here!?"

With a slightly nervous look, Klink replied, "You'd be surprised how much a tire fire can motivate you to apply brakes _really_ hard." His confidence suddenly returned as he added, "But enough of that! We're taking you to our Central Control, just as soon as Hogan unloads our luggage."

"Hogan!?" she cried. "You mean he's here too!?"

Whether Klink was going to answer or not, they were interrupted by the sudden sounds of mayhem from the opening of the plane's cargo hold. Several large bags were unceremoniously thrown out onto the runway with no regard whatsoever for whatever might be inside them, and indeed they all heard the crashes of multiple fragile contents. Seconds later, a large man with long blonde hair, wearing only a tank top and skin-tight exercise pants jumped down from the cargo hold with a savage roar and the two largest bags gripped in his powerfully muscled arms. He slammed both bags onto the ground like spiked footballs with another roar, and then grabbed his tank top and ripped it in half to remove it from his massive chest. He then flexed every muscle in his body with the loudest, most obnoxious roar yet.

"That's not Colonel Hogan," said a confused Ima.

"Not _Colonel_ Hogan, no," admitted Schultz. "There was a mix-up in casting."

Following retrieval of their baggage, or what was left of it, Klink and Schultz forced Ima into the back seat of a car with another spy in the driver's seat. Klink got into the back with Ima to keep his Luger on her, while Schultz joined the driver up front.

"Shotgun!" Schultz exclaimed in delight.

"Behave yourself Schultz, or _I'll_ give you a shotgun!" warned Klink.

Schultz's good mood instantly evaporated, guessing just how Klink would give it.

The car took them to a nearby city. Ima remembered what Schultz blabbed earlier about being 733 miles from Athens as the crow flies, and she hadn't noticed them flying over water, so as far as she knew of geography, that meant she must have been somewhere in Eastern Europe. Judging from what she saw, the Cold War must have hit this place super-hard. The entire city was deserted and dilapidated. The streets were almost completely empty of cars and people. Many of the buildings stood empty, and the few businesses that remained open were devoid of customers. The few people she did see just seemed fed up with everything, as if they no longer cared about anything anymore.

"Is it off-season here?" she asked.

"Actually, it's the height of our tourist season right now," answered Klink.

"What would tourists ever want to come to _this_ awful place for!?"

"History!" he proudly declared. "This land has a very proud heritage, the glorious military ideals of the Third Reich blended with the cunning perseverance of the Cold War! While your country is mired in uncertainties and ambiguities like wars on terrorism, illegal immigration, changing social mores, and at least three dozen different procedural shows on television, we preserve the clear black-and-white certainties of the old days! You are the good guys, and we are the bad guys! End of story!"

"You _admit_ you're bad guys!?"

Schultz looked hurt. "_I_ am not so bad!"

Klink glared at him. "You are a _bad_ spy, Schultz."

"Herr Klink, please, how can you think I am a bad spy!?"

"Because when it comes to spying, Schultz... you know _nuh_-thing!"

Further arguments were aborted when they pulled into an abandoned garage. Klink and Schultz pulled Ima out of the car and directed her at gunpoint down a manhole into a long, dark, and very dreary tunnel that eventually took them through a door into an underground room. It was devoid of furnishings except for a few chairs, an overhead light bulb, and a small table with some old magazines. The most recent one was dated June 1964.

"Judging by this waiting room, I should tell you, I already had a dental checkup last month," Ima told them.

Klink rounded on her in anger. "Woman, I've had quite enough of your insolence! Just remember, you are our prisoner and your life is in our hands! And unless your partner in espionage surrenders the top secret computer components to us, you will never leave this place alive!"

Ima had enough of all their espionage and spy garbage. "All right, that's it!" she snapped. "I want to know what this is all about right now! _Stop!_" She abruptly held up her hand to stop their predicted response. "I know, you just told me again, you think I'm some kind of enemy spy, and that Gary and I were in charge of those computer parts you're trying to steal. We're _not_, so don't waste my time saying it again, I wanna know a lot of other things right now! First of all, who are you working for!?"

A door opened in the opposite wall and two new figures walked in. One was a very short man dressed in a jet-black trench coat and hat, with a pencil mustache and a big, evil grin. He was accompanied by a taller woman in a tight blue dress with a smile like Mona Lisa's evil twin.

"Allow me to eentroduce myself!" announced the little man in a pseudo-Russian accent. "Jerk Boo-er, vorld's greatest master spy, at your disservice tventy-four hours a day!"

" . . . . You have _got_ to be kidding!" mumbled Ima, too shell-shocked to think of anything else to say at the moment.

"Please, I never kid about being a schnook! And dees ees my partner, Mata Hari-Kiri!"

The woman chuckled slightly and pure d, also in a faux-Russian accent, "All men theenk I'm to die for!"

"Jerk Boo-er and Mata Hari-Kiri, my aching back!" exclaimed Ima, much louder and even angrier now. "You think I never heard of you characters!? You're that nasty little spy from the old Bullwinkle cartoon -!"

"Say de name!"

"Boris Badenov!"

"Ta-da!"

"_And_ Natasha!"

"Ta-da, dah-ling!"

(You have two seconds to hiss the villains.)

"_You're_ behind all of this!?"

"Dat's right! Me, Boris Badenov, master spy of Pottsylvania and nastiest no-goodneek een de vorld!"

"_Who_ is master spy of Pottsylvania!?" demanded another man with a clipped German accent who marched through the door behind them. This man was dressed in a Nazi officer's uniform with a monocle and a large scar running down his cheek.

Boris was instantly reduced to a quivering mass of fear as he hastily replied, "Y-y-_you_ are, Fearless Leader!"

"You're here too!?" exclaimed Ima. "What is this, a cartoon villains' convention!?"

"We're not cartoons!" protested Klink. Schultz nodded fiercely in agreement.

Ima turned and gave them a pitying look. "No? Have you _seen_ your performances?"

"Oh, I never watch myself on television," replied Schultz. "From an actor's standpoint, I don't believe it is a good idea to view your performance from the outside in, as it may wrongly affect your future roles. You may find yourself worrying too much about the appearance as opposed to the motivation -"

"_Schu-u-u-ultz!_"

Schultz jumped and turned to Klink. "_Ja_, Herr Colonel?"

"_DIS - missed!_"

"Hold it, Klink!" barked Fearless Leader. "I am in command here! Nobody dismisses anybody except me!"

"Thank you, Herr Leader!" replied Schultz.

"_DIS - missed!_"

Schultz's face fell. "_Ja wohl_, Herr Leader." He shuffled reluctantly from the room.

To Klink, Fearless Leader demanded, "Vell Klink, vhere are de computer components?"

Klink took over Schultz's role of the nervous subordinate and replied, "Ah, Herr Leader, certain... complications have occurred -"

"In other vords, you don't have dem!"

"Ooh, now you're going to get eet!" taunted Boris.

"Shut up, Badenov!"

"Shutting up, Fearless Leader."

"_But_, Fearless Leader, we will have them very soon!" Klink insisted. Indicating Ima, he continued, "You see, when we failed to steal the computer parts - due to _Schultz's_ bumbling, not mine! - we took Maxwell Smart's partner prisoner instead!"

Ima's head whipped around. "emWhose/em partner!?"

Ignoring her outburst, Klink continued, "I'm sure he'll be more than willing to trade the components for her life, Fearless Leader!" He gave a wide, open-mouthed grin to emphasize how ingenious he thought his scheme was and his certainty that Fearless Leader would think it was ingenious too.

He was wrong. "Klink, you idiot!" his Leader screeched. "Do you seriously theenk any spy would give up sometheeng so vital to vorld security for de sake of a mere woman!?"

Ima's head whipped back toward him. "Whaddaya mean _mere_ woman!? Are you saying a woman isn't worth as much as a handful of microchips!?"

"You, voman, are not vorth as much as a handful of _potato_ chips!"

That did it. Mount Ima erupted again. "WHADDA YOU KNOW ABOUT WHAT A WOMAN IS WORTH, YOU MALE-CHAUVINIST THIRD-REICH REJECT!? ANY WOMAN IS WORTH A THOUSAND OF YOU GOOSE-STEPPING GREASE STAINS -!"

With lightning speed, Fearless Leader whipped a giant Luger pistol out of his holster and pressed its barrel right into Ima's forehead! "I said you are not vorth a handful of potato chips, and vhat I say goes, on pain of death!" he barked. "You vill obey me, you vill cower before me like de meek little woman you are, _and_ you vill agree vith every condescending insult I give you, or I'll shoot you vhere you stand!"

Klink, Boris, and Natasha stood transfixed, genuinely fearful of what was going to happen in the next few moments. Ima was only a twitching finger away from certain death. How would she react? To their surprise, nothing. For several seconds, she just stood there, her fury frozen in place on her face as if time were standing still. Her red, rage-filled eyes never wavered from staring straight into the equally-furious eyes of Fearless Leader, who in turn held his gun at her head like a murderous statue.

"Vell!? Your submission or your life!?"

"I'm thinking it over!"

"Vith all due respect, Fearless Leader," said Natasha, "ve can't just stand here all day vaiting for her to make up her mind."

"Hmm, you have a point," he admitted. "I need to come up vith another vay to get dose computer components... A vay dat vill _vork_ dis time!" He was looking at Klink. Klink replied with a nervous, obsequious laugh.

With an evil sneer, Fearless Leader added, "So, as the Americans say, put her on ice!"

Minutes later, Ima found herself locked inside a large meat freezer and chained to a huge block of solid ice. Fortunately, her spy escorts had provided her with winter clothing so she wouldn't freeze, but the situation still left her sulking.

"Leave it to Boris Badenov and Fearless Leader to imprison me in a bad pun," she muttered to herself. She tested the chain fastened to the thick metal band around her wrist. It was more than strong enough to resist breaking, and without a large ice pick, there was no way she would ever release the other end from its burial within the ice block. With escape a non-viable option for the moment, Ima studied the freezer's contents.

Contents of the freezer included a large number of meat slabs hanging off hooks, most appearing to be beef and lamb, though one appeared to be moose. emI hope that isn't the moose I'm thinking of/em, she thought. She also saw a large number of frozen TV dinners stacked up along one wall, and what appeared to be ice cream containers stacked along another wall. One corner particularly caught her attention. At first it appeared be merely stacks of large blocks of ice, but on closer examination, she saw the blocks were full of paper money and coins.

_Oh, I get it_, thought Ima with disgusted realization. _They must be Pottsylvania's 'frozen assets.'_

Then she saw a group of small donkeys also encased in ice blocks, and immediately revised her guess with even more disgust.

Ladies and gentlemen - and any readers not fitting either category - for the first time in this novel, rather than having our main characters split up into separate teams or following one small team only through an entire chapter, we are now going to switch completely from one team to another within a chapter. Hang onto your hats, folks, here we go...

Far away in time and space, Phil was processing the knowledge that he had been inadvertently whisked away from Earth in an alien time machine that was bigger inside than outside, to somewhere over the rainbow by an eccentric time traveler and a young woman who evidently wasn't a fan of L. Frank Baum.

"I've been in Earth's past, present, and future, on alien planets and spaceships and space stations, I've been underground, underwater, and up and down every corridor in the universe," Sarah griped to the Doctor, "and now you've dropped us down into a _fictional_ place!?"

The Doctor appeared to stare in awe at the spectacle through the view screen, but he merely shrugged and said, "Well . . . I supposed it does look a bit unrealistic."

"Perhaps," said Phil, "but appearance can be deceiving. Even more so when it's merely an image on a video monitor."

With a big grin, the Doctor replied, "Then let's eliminate the middleman!" He pulled a lever on the console that caused the control room's double-doors to open, and quickly stepped through them. With a long-suffering expression, Sarah followed him. Phil was right behind her.

The three travelers emerged from the time machine and strolled onto a breathtaking landscape. All around, flowers and grass and trees grew green on rolling hills under a blue sky broken only occasionally by fair weather clouds and a huge rainbow.

"It emis/em unrealistic," said the Doctor. He pulled a yo-yo out of his coat's enormous pocket and gave it a few experimental ups and downs. "Gravity's a bit off. Could be some kind of simulated environment."

"Cheaply simulated by the look of it," muttered Sarah. "Is it my imagination, or did that tree wobble as we walked past it?"

"It's not just gravity that's off," said Phil. "I feel as though we're being watched by many other than the plant life all around us. And yet, at the same time, it feels like we're totally alone. I don't understand how that can be."

The Doctor shrugged. "Schrodinger's cat?"

"Place like this, I'd sooner expect the Cheshire cat," replied Sarah.

"No-no, it's elementary quantum physics. Schrodinger's cat is either alive or dead inside a closed box. You don't know which until you open the box, so the cat must be in a superposition of the two possibilities until then."

"What, so until we actually meet someone, we'll never know either way if there's anyone here?"

"Naturally! Why do you think I can't just go back to the TARDIS right after I land?"

Sarah stopped and stared toward the sky ahead of them, and nervously replied, "Does _that_ count as meeting someone?"

Coming toward them out of the sky was what could only be described as a large ball of energy. "Doctor, what is that!?" she exclaimed.

Whatever it was, it was becoming closer and brighter, uttering a strange whining noise as it flew, which grew louder the closer it came.

"Get down!" shouted the Doctor. He and his two companions dropped to the ground and shielded their heads as the fireball flew too close. Its noise level grew to an agonizing number of decibels, forcing the three travelers to cover their ears. The sound and light flared like an explosion, then in an instant, both sound and light zoomed past and faded away, and everything was as it was before.

Cautiously, they stood up and uncovered their ears. "Well now, what do you suppose that was?" the Doctor mused.

"Whatever it was," commented Phil, "it had an aura unlike anything I've ever sensed before. And that includes your TARDIS. It was . . . I'm not sure how to describe it."

"I know how to describe it," retorted Sarah. "Loud!"

"And very bright," added the Doctor. "But strangely lacking in heat."

"Why is it strange?" asked Phil. "Heat doesn't always accompany light and sound."

"But light and sound alone wouldn't cause these trees to wilt."

Sarah and Phil looked around. The Doctor was right, the beautiful trees that greeted their arrival were all rapidly shriveling up and shedding dried-up, dead leaves. So were the flowering shrubs, and even the grass was now turning brown and dead.

"Look at that sky!" exclaimed Sarah, watching as the brilliant blue sky entirely turned gray before their eyes.

"Watch it!" snapped Phil as he pushed Sarah aside just before the nearest tree fell over. Strangely, it didn't fall like a usual dead tree uprooting itself. It was more like it just... toppled over like a cardboard set piece going off-balance.

Other dead "trees" soon followed their sibling to the ground. And then the biggest surprise came when one of the puffy white clouds, incongruously hanging in the rapidly greying sky, just... dropped like a stone to the ground nearby! So did another cloud, and another, and another...

"I don't believe it!" gasped Sarah. "The sky is falling!"

"Quick, back to the TARDIS!" the Doctor barked.

"It feels like this whole world is dying!" cried Phil.

"Dying or losing its corporeal integrity, if we don't leave now, we'll go with it!" The Doctor led Phil and Sarah in a sprint back into the TARDIS. As the landscape withered away into nothingness, the TARDIS doors slammed shut, and a loud wheezing, groaning sound began emanating from it as it vanished.

"That doesn't sound good," said Phil's voice as it faded into the time vortex. "Did you leave the brake on?"

Moments later, violating all the known laws of probability and surprising the hell out of Ima, the TARDIS rematerialized right inside her freezer prison. She was even more surprised when a tall, curly-haired man with a ridiculously long scarf emerged from the large blue box, followed by a young woman who immediately started shivering. "Oh no!" the man muttered grumpily. "That last place's dissolution must've mucked up the coordinate rectifier!"

"Doctor, have you ever considered using maps?" Sarah griped through chattering teeth.

"Of course not! Never trust anything you can't fold the same way twice."

Ima interrupted their argument with, "Can you spare some of that scarf? My face is getting frostbite!"

At the sound of the familiar voice, Phil popped out of the TARDIS. "Ima?"

"Phil!? What the hell are you doing with those people!?"

"A long and complicated story, Ima."

"You can tell me while you're getting me loose." She held up her chained wrist. "I don't suppose you can use chi or telekinesis to get this thing off?"

"It doesn't work that way, Ima."

Sarah turned to the Doctor. "Would your sonic screwdriver work that way?"

"Let's find out." He pulled a thin, rod-like instrument from his coat pocket and started making adjustments to it.

"'Sonic' screwdriver?" repeated Ima. "What's the deal with that?"

"Oh, many deals, Ima," he replied. "It picks locks, it detects land mines, it decodes computers... I'm not sure how well it does with screws anymore, but I've added at least a hundred other functions to it over the years!

"Does _every_ man in the world have to tinker with the tools they have?" grumbled Ima.

The Doctor's screwdriver emitted a high-pitched whistling sound as he pointed it at the shackle, and moments later, it suddenly unlocked.

"Okay, I admit, that's good," she admitted. She stood up and added, "Now, how is it with unlocking freezer doors from the inside?"

"And soon, before my skin turns blue!" quivered Sarah.

She and the Doctor approached the door to work on it, while Ima pulled Phil aside and asked, "So who _are_ your new friends?"

"The woman is named Sarah, and he's the Doctor."

"What's the doctor's name?"

"Who."

"The doctor."

"Who."

"The doctor."

"Who."

"The doctor!"

"Who!"

"The doctor you just came with!"

"_Who_ is the doctor!"

"What're you asking _me_ for!?"

Ima tried to start again. "Look, what's his name?"

"No, Who."

"What?"

"Not What, Who."

"Who?"

"Right."

"... So, he's Doctor Right?"

"No, he's Doctor Who."

"That's what I'm asking you!"

"Why? I just told you, Who."

"What!?"

"No, Who!"

With a loud clunk, the freezer door opened. Sarah turned to Ima and Phil and said, "We're free! Let's go!"

"Where?" asked Phil.

"Knock it off!" shouted Ima.

"Whatever you're arguing about, finish it out here where it's warm!" retorted Sarah.

As Ima and Phil joined their companions outside and the Doctor closed the door behind them, he added, "And when your argument's finished, Ima, you can tell us why you were in cold storage."

"You'll never believe it."

The Doctor grinned. "Oh good! I haven't dealt with anything unbelievable in nearly a week!"

A few minutes after they left, the TARDIS doors opened again and a ball of energy emerged - the same ball of energy that zoomed down out of the sky toward Phil, Sarah, and the Doctor back in their previous location. Unseen by them, it flew inside the TARDIS and hitched a ride with them to Pottsylvania.

At first, it simply hovered in mid-air inside the freezer, as if surveying its surroundings. Noticing the donkeys frozen in ice blocks, it drifted over to them and started growing in brightness and power. As its energy poured down on the ice blocks, they began to melt, and their entombed victims began to stir. Seconds later, the frozen assets were replaced by living, braying donkeys in a huge puddle of water. At the same time, the freezer door unlocked and opened by itself. Quickly, the donkeys ran from the freezer, and the energy ball drifted after them.

After they left, something else emerged from the ice: a tiny motorboat that Ima failed to notice earlier due to its small size. Amazingly, the tiny motor roared into life and the boat began to move away under the guidance of a tiny man in a captain's uniform, who griped, "Boy, that's the last time I offer to clean Fearless Leader's toilet!"

As they walked along a series of corridors, Ima told the others all the events that led to her ending up in the freezer. "And you'll never believe who put me in there. Boris Badenov and Fearless Leader!"

"Who?" asked Phil.

"You know, from Rocky and Bullwinkle! Didn't you watch cartoons when you were a kid?"

"I spent my childhood trying to understand the meaning of existence."

"They tried to teach _us_ that in school," the Doctor noted with a dismissive huff. "Couched it all in terms of quantum determinacy and the web of time. Hunh! What did they know?"

"What are you saying?" demanded Sarah. "We've gone from a cheap movie set to an even cheaper cartoon show!?" She looked askance at the Doctor. "I think the TARDIS has finally gone potty!"

"I'll admit, at her age, a little senility wouldn't be uncommon, but not my old girl! Sarah, the TARDIS can go anywhere in time and space. And in an infinite universe, that means _anywhere_! Even a world where what you think as cheap and cartoonish might just be real!"

"So what kind of cheap, cartoonish world do you think is behind that door?" asked Ima, indicating the large door blocking the end of the corridor up ahead.

The Doctor shrugged. "Mad scientist's laboratory? Master control room? Root cellar?"

Sarah suggested, "Laundry room?"

Phil declared, "Let's find out."

They opened the door. To their collective surprise, it opened onto the set of a game show. That and a dozen armed guards. And Fearless Leader.

"So, you thought you could escape from Central Control, did you, woman?" he barked.

"Hey, I have a name, ya know!" Ima barked back. "It's Ima!"

"And who are your friends, _Ima_? More spies who say they're not spies?"

"Oh, no one special, we're just passing through," the Doctor replied cheerily. He then held up a small paper bag and asked, "Would you like a jelly baby?"

"All of you put your hands up!"

They did so. The Doctor, who still had his jelly baby bag in his up-stretched hand, said, "Will you be able to reach them when they're up this high?"

"Een a minute. Since you are all here, valk dis vay. You're just in time to be contestants on Pottsylvania's most popular game show, Vheel of Torture!"

"Wheel of _Torture_!?" blurted Ima as they were led down through the audience bleachers to the studio floor. Despite the large seating capacity, the bleachers were practically empty save for a couple dozen scattered individuals who looked like they'd rather watch dust accumulate on their furniture than watch this game show. Like this game show's famous American namesake, there was a large wheel in the center of the set. On the wall facing the wheel and the audience, covered letters were mounted in positions that spelled out some well-known phrase or title or whatever.

Ima, Phil, Sarah, and the Doctor were positioned at gunpoint in a row behind the wheel. Now they could see why the show was called Wheel of "Torture." Instead of dollar values printed on the wheel, there were names of various torture devices and methods printed on it, some of which were so gruesome as to give all of them goosebumps. Selections such as "Rack," "Iron Maiden," "Boiling Oil," and "Karaoke Singers" filled their minds with horror.

"Fun for the whole family," muttered the Doctor.

"Why would you want to torture us, Fearless Leader?" asked Phil.

"I'm not going to torture you," he replied. "I'll be leaving dat to your hosts for tonight!"

The back wall was curtained. Through the curtain came Boris and Natasha, all evil smiles and now wearing formal attire. "Allow me to eentroduce myself! Rat Blackjack, host of Vheel of Torture, and my lovely assistant, Vain Black!"

"I've alvays been a voman of letters!" she purred as she glided toward the letter board.

"You have a degree?" asked the Doctor.

"Doctor of Inhumanities."

"Graduated magna cum louse!" added Boris.

"Enough of this!" snapped Fearless Leader. "Start the show!"

The few people in the audience clapped one-sixteenth-heartedly, which immediately became much more enthusiastic though much less sincere when some of Fearless Leader's gunmen trained their weapons on the audience.

"Here are de rules of de game!" announced Boris -

"Dat's Rat Blackjack!"

C'mon, who're you trying to kid?

To the contestants (victims), he continued, "De contestant spins de vheel. Vhen it stops on a torture choice, he or she must guess a letter in our puzzle. If the letter is een de puzzle, de contestant spins again. If it eesn't, de contestant gets thirty seconds of de torture selected!"

"I don't think I like this game," noted Phil.

"I _know_ I don't like it!" Sarah agreed nervously.

"_I_ like it!" Boris sneered.

"If you want to play it instead of us, be our guest," Ima replied.

"Nonsense, I vouldn't dream of standing een de vay of your displeasure! And now, Miss Ima Nutt, you get to spin first!"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No!" barked Fearless Leader from the audience front row. Several armed guards cocked their rifles in her direction to emphasize it.

"Didn't think so." She spun the wheel.

It wasn't long before the wheel gradually slowed down. To Ima's considerable dismay, it stopped on "Snake Pit." "Now, Miss Nut, pick a letter," ordered Boris.

Ima looked at the puzzle. It was a five-word title with the letters arranged thus: xxxxxxxxx xx xxxxxx xxxx xxxx. With only a few seconds hesitation, she made her selection. "Is there a T?"

"There are _three_ T's!" Natasha turned the T's around. Now the puzzle looked like, xxxxxxxxx xx xxTTxx Txxx xxxx. Ima and her companions smiled with relief. They obviously weren't going to win any money in this game, but at least Ima escaped the snake pit.

"Dat means you get _ninety_ seconds of torture, Miss Nut!" exclaimed Boris.

The contestants were aghast. "Wait a minute!" Sarah exclaimed. "You said we were tortured only if the letter isn't in the puzzle!"

"Ve haven't told you one of de most important rules of de game," Boris replied. "Ve never follow de rules! Beh-heh-heh-heh!"

As Boris laughed and the almost nonexistent audience muttered some extremely bored cheers, Pottsylvanian guards dragged her from contestants' row while others held the remaining contestants at gunpoint. As they watched on, powerless to assist, a trap door slid open in the middle of the stage floor, and Ima was picked up bodily and dropped right into it. Hundreds of snake hisses could be clearly heard from inside the pit! Oh, how is Ima going to get out of this latest cliffhanger!? Be with us next time for "A Pit to Hiss In", or "The Asp Hole!"

Sarah cringed. "I don't remember them making jokes _that_ rude on the old cartoon!"

Welcome to Internet fanfiction.

**Let's see, Klink and Schultz are copyright to Bing Crosby Productions with thanks to actors Werner Klemperer and John Banner. The Doctor and Sarah are copyright to the BBC with thanks to actors Tom Baker and Elisabeth Sladen. Ima and Phil are copyright to RCGumby Productions, with no thanks to same.**

**And now our newcomers: Boris Badenov, Natasha Fatale, and Fearless Leader, copyright to Jay Ward Productions and DreamWorks Classics, with thanks respectively to voice actors Paul Frees, June Foray, and Bill Scott. Hogan, the belligerent baggage handler, is copyright to himself and brought to larger-than-life by himself. (Please don't body-slam us!) And then there's the tiny toilet-cleaning captain, currently copyright to Willert Home Products and brought to life by several different actors over the years, all four inches tall with a habit of spying on you while you're doing your business. Makes me flushed just thinking about it.**


	19. Espionage Comes Calling

**Chapter 18**  
**Espionage Comes Calling, or**  
**Get My Agent on the Phone**

This chapter also picks up directly from the end of chapter 9. You could re-read it again, or go back to the previous chapter and re-read the recap, or . . . Oh, I give up, I'll just reprint the last few paragraphs:

Despite being far outclassed by the horses in terms of speed, Gary kept running until he tripped and fell face-down into his berry basket. He quickly pulled it off, angry at his clumsiness and even angrier at the wasted shampoo. Knowing now that he could never catch them on foot, Gary looked around desperately for transportation. He dashed quickly into a nearby barn to find something, and spied a bicycle hidden inside. He grabbed it and pedaled in the direction he still saw the horse-riders moving at break-neck speed.

He was well clear of the village limits when suddenly two shots rang out, followed by a loud noise of snapping metal. That noise was Gary's rear tire breaking up. He spun out of control and toppled over in the middle of a large open field, and Gary landed face-down in the grass. Fortunately, the grass was thick enough that he was only stunned for a few seconds with a few minor scrapes. He got up, only to find Maxwell Smart standing a few feet away, pointing a gun straight at his chest.  
"Oh great, another cliffhanger," Gary groaned.

"Only metaphorically speaking," Max pointed out, "since there's no cliff this time."

"I strongly advise you to cooperate, my friend!" said Max smugly. "Not only do I have you covered, but there are _ten_ trained snipers all armed with high-powered rifles hidden in the immediate vicinity, all poised to open fire at the slightest sign of any trouble!"

Gary looked all around. "Ten snipers hidden in an open field? That's pretty hard to believe!"

". . . Would you believe _five_ snipers?"

"No."

". . . How about a guy with a BB gun?"

". . . . If he was a _small_ guy, I suppose he could hide behind that rock over there."

A woman appeared in the distance, running toward them. "99!" exclaimed Max. "Where've you been!? I looked all over the shop for you!"

Breathlessly, she replied, "Sorry Max, one of the Pottsylvanian spies jumped me from behind, disarmed me, and locked me in the janitor's closet! I only just kicked my way out!" She noticed Gary and added, "But I see you caught another one!"

"Another what!?" demanded Gary. Catching on a second later, he exclaimed, "I'm not a spy!"

Catching onto something else another second later, he added, "I've never even _heard_ of Pottsylvania!"

Yet another second later, he suddenly realized, "I _have_ heard of Pottsylvania! But that was in a cartoon show, and this is real life!"

He then realized yet another something else: "You're Maxwell Smart and Agent 99... This _isn't_ real life!"

Another realization: "Those goons who kidnapped Ima - _they_ were spies!? Were they from your TV show or the cartoon?"

"If you'll let me get a paragraph in edgewise, I have a demand of my own," retorted Max. "Where are the computer parts you stole?"

"We didn't steal those parts, some mime gave them to us!"

"Because he thought you were Max and myself!" declared 99. "How did you know the code responses?"

"Code responses... You mean that old poem he prompted us with? I've known that one since grade school!"

99 uttered an exasperated sigh and told Max, "I _knew_ we should've gone with more obscure passwords!"

Max shook his head and replied, "_I_ knew we never should've hired a cryptographer straight out of elementary school!"

"What could we do? He knew ten times more about software encryption than any other applicant."

"And you gotta admit, it saves the agency a lot of expenses having an agent who can order from the kid's menu."

"Never mind your cryptography and your kid's menus!" exclaimed Gary. "I want Ima back!"

"You want your back what?" asked Max.

"Not _my_ back, _Ima_ back!"

"You're a back what?" asked 99.

"I'm a back _what_-what!?"

Max: "Or are you a what back?"

Gary: "_What_!?"

99: "A quarterback? A halfback?"

Max: "You're a spy for a football team? Boy, those bookies will try anything to fix the odds!"

99: "That can't be it, Max, they're already doing fixed sports gambling in another chapter."

"WILL YOU STOP IT!?" screamed Gary. "Ima is the name of my friend who those other two spies kidnapped! They think she and I have the computer parts too, and it's pretty obvious they grabbed her to try and force us to hand them over!"

"Kidnap the girl to force the guy to cooperate!?" exclaimed Max. "_That's_ a new one!"

_We're screwed_, thought Gary.

"Max, if she's been taken to Pottsylvania, we better confer with the Chief."

"I'll call him right now." Max took off his shoe and flipped open the sole to reveal the keypad and speakers again. He dialed the number and said, "Agent 86 to Control. Agent 86 to Control."

_"This is Central Control,"_ was the response, in a decidedly East-European-slash-Russian accent. _"Fearless Leader is in conference at the moment and cannot be disturbed on pain of death! Leave a message in code, and then swallow it!"_

Max, confused at first, then rolled his eyes and retorted, "Not _Central_ Control! Just Control!" He hung up and muttered, "Wrong unlisted number."

He tried again. "Agent 86 to Control - _Just_ Control!"

_"Go ahead, Max."_

"We have one of the suspects who took the computer parts from our contact -"

"I'm not a suspect, I'm an innocent bystander!"

"- and he claims to be an innocent bystander in all this."

"I _am_! Listen, you want 'em, you can have 'em, I just want Ima back!"

_"He wants his back what?"_

"Don't you start it too!"

99 interrupted. "Chief, are you still at our Athens bureau?"

_"Yes, 99."_

"We need to discuss this in person. We'll bring our - 'innocent bystander' and the computer parts with us.

To make a long story short - and because we couldn't think of a decent gag to end this scene with - Maxwell Smart and Agent 99 brought Gary and his luggage, with the computer components, to the Athens branch of Control, the top-secret international spy agency dedicated to protecting the world from all enemies of freedom, democracy, and goodness, or so it says on their mission statement. Between you and me, their mission statement hasn't been updated since the Cold War. Their book of regulations still includes a chapter on how best to slip through the Berlin Wall.

Actually, Control's Athens branch was secretly built underground beneath the ruins of an ancient Greek amphitheater just outside Athens. The underground bunker was a maze of corridors and rooms where agents moved back and forth, continuously monitoring activity all over Southeastern Europe and relaying it back to their main headquarters. Along one corridor wall was a set of elevator doors, the main access from the surface to the bunker.

The doors parted to reveal, not an elevator, but a flight of stairs that Max, 99, and Gary were descending to the corridor. From there, they went straight to the Chief's office.

"Some location," marveled Gary. "Does it get you free tickets to plays in the theater upstairs?"

Max grumbled, "No, and you can't get special advanced purchasing either, and I really wanted to see _Oedipus Rex_ this weekend!"

"Probably just as well," 99 whispered to Gary. "He wanted to take his mother along as his date!"

The Chief was sitting behind the desk in his office when they entered. "Chief, this is Gary Funny, the spy we told you about," announced Max.

"_For the three hundredth time, I'm not a spy!_" exploded Gary.

"Ah-HA! Caught you in a lie!" Max crowed. "That was only the _fourteenth_ time you've told us that!"

With long-suffering impatience, the Chief said, "Max, I think we can settle whether or not he's a spy right now. We took Mr. Funny's name and physical description and ran a check through our global identity files." The Chief called up the data on his computer and reported, "Gary Ingram Patrick Funny, born in Hoboken, New Jersey -"

"Well, there are you, Chief! If that isn't a phony name, I don't know what is!"

"Phony?"

"What kind of a mother would give her son a name that can be abbreviated to 'G. I. P. Funny'!?"

Gary glared at Max and retorted, "It was her late father's name!"

Max at least had the decency to look like he wasn't enjoying the taste of his own foot.

"As I was saying," grumbled the Chief, "nothing in our records gives even the slightest indication that Mr. Funny is actively engaged in espionage. And since he is willingly returning our misplaced circuit boards and flash drive -"

"Here they are, Chief," said 99, handing the package to him.

The Chief opened the package. "They're all here. So I call this part of the case at least, closed."

"Good, now is ANYBODY around here going to help me rescue my friend!?"

"From the heart of Central Control in Pottsylvania? That'll be difficult as well as dangerous," noted 99.

The Chief glanced at the computer components again. "But we know these are what they really want. That gives me an idea."

Max indicated Gary and spoke up. "Chief, if our records are correct and this man is only an innocent civilian, we can't plan a covert operation in front of him! If we're going to discuss it, we must use the Cone of Silence!"

The Chief groaned. "Max, in the first place, Mr. Funny will be directly involved in this 'covert operation'. In the second place, you know perfectly well the Cone of Silence never works right!"

Max sat down in the chair at the desk opposite the Chief's and insisted, "Nevertheless, I must insist, Chief! Regulations clearly state that unauthorized civilians cannot be allowed to overhear any part of our operations, and besides, I've been talking to the lab boys, and they've upgraded the Cone with the latest sound-cancelling technology! They're positive it will work perfectly!"

"All right - all right!" The Chief activated his intercom and said, "Olsen, lower the Cone of Silence."

_"Yes, Chief."_

Max and the Chief sat upright in their chairs as a large, transparent plastic shape slowly lowered from a concealed compartment in the ceiling. It was shaped like a long, open bottomed tube with two dome-shaped protrusions on top that were large enough and positioned just right to fit over the two men's heads. The Cone of Silence was meant to block all sounds made inside from getting outside, thus Max and the Chief would be able to talk without risk of anyone else hearing them.

"The first part of my plan is for the lab to make fake copies of these computer components," said the Chief.

"What?" asked Max.

"I said, we make fake copies of these computer chips!"

"How are potato chips going to help us sneak into Pottsylvania!?"

"What!? What do tomatoes from Pennsylvania have to do with any of this!?"

_"What!?"_

Gary knocked on the outside of Max's side of the Cone of Silence. "The Chief said we were going to make copies of the computer chips!" He then knocked on the Chief's side and said, "And Max thought you said _potato_ chips, not tomatoes!"

Totally fed up, the Chief stabbed the intercom. "Olsen, raise the Cone!"

_"Huh? What'd you say, Chief?"_

99 called out toward the door, "He said raise the Cone!"

_"Oh! Right away, Chief!"_

The Cone raised up. The Chief glared a very strong "I told you so!" look at Max.

"So what's this about making copies?" Gary asked the Chief.

"We're going to make copies that look exactly like the flash drive and circuit boards, except that they won't really work. Mr. Funny, you'll deliver the fakes to Central Control, make them think you're surrendering them in exchange for Miss Nutt."

"ME!? Go into Pottsylvania!?" yelped Gary. "I'm no spy!"

"Exactly. There's every chance they've figured that out by now, so they'll be expecting you to give in more easily. Don't worry, 99 will tail you in secret and back you up if there's any trouble. And while they're focusing on you..." He turned to Max. "Max, you infiltrate Central Control, locate Ima Nutt, and extract her."

"If I'm going into the heart of the most vile organization of evil since the last season of 'Big Brother', I'll need a disguise."

"Agreed, and the Makeup section anticipated this and has already prepared the perfect disguise to get you in."

Scant minutes later, Gary, 99, and the Chief were standing outside the door to the Makeup section. "You do this sort of thing a lot?" asked Gary.

"Oh yes," replied 99, "our makeup experts are the best in the world. They can make you look like anyone or anything. When Max comes out, you'll never recognize him. He'll just be an anonymous face in the crowd."

"Not this time, 99," countered the Chief. "Pottsylvanian Central Control will expect one of our agents to be masquerading as someone nondescript, so we're using a different approach. Max is being disguised as someone well-known throughout the free world, someone so ruthless, so corrupt, so utterly reprehensible, that Pottsylvania will welcome him with open arms."

"Who?"

The answer came when Max stepped out, disguised as none other than...

"J. R. Ewing?" Gary wondered just how sillier this could get.

"Ah've been prac-_tiz_-in' mah Texas drawl fer jus' such 'n _oh_-cassion!" Max drawled, tipping his cowboy hat.

Chief rolled his eyes. "Don't overdo it, Max!" he grumbled.

"Sorry about that, Chief."

To skip over the more boring parts of this chapter -

"Which takes us right into Chapter 19 -"

Shut up! As the last twilight began fading in the west, Gary made his way through a border town, toward a small bar on the corner of Hit and Run streets. 99 assured him she was following close by. To further reassure him, Control fitted him beforehand with an ultra-miniature camera and microphone hidden on his jacket front, and a micro-earpiece through which 99 was communicating with him from her hiding place.

"Max and I have been here on previous assignments," she whispered through the earpiece. "You can almost always find Pottsylvanian spies lying in wait to steal information from other spies, or just unwinding after a long day of espionage."

"How much farther is it?" he whispered back.

99 heard him in her own hidden earpiece linked to the microphone, while using the camera to see where he was going on semi-transparent LED screens forming the "lenses" of her sunglasses. "Just around the next corner. It's a small bar but popular, and sometimes a little rowdy, so try not to draw attention to yourself."

Gary rounded the corner. Instead of the dingy bar 99 described, he faced a dingy restaurant called Sam 'n Ella's Seafood Shack.

"I guess they came under new management," whispered a nonplussed 99.

Inside, the dark, dingy bar had been completely redecorated in early sailing vessel. Fishing nets studded with starfish and barnacles were draped on the walls, supplemented by stuffed and mounted fish. Portholes replaced many of the windows, a huge lobster tank replaced the pool table, and the portraits of Al Capone, John Dillinger, and Frank and Jesse James that used to hang prominently over the bar were replaced by a painting of Vikings, a portrait of Blackbeard, and an autographed photo of Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon.

"At least they still have the same in-house band," whispered 99. A small stage held a variety of instruments, and a banner hanging over the stage said, "Mel Torment and his Orchestra." At the moment, only one man was on stage, idly tooting away on a saxophone.

"Walk over casually and sit down," said 99. "I'll see if I recognize anyone around."

Gary did as instructed. Catching the saxophonist's attention, he asked, "You part of the band?"

"No, I'm just the piano tuner. Call me Charlie."

His accent resulted in his r's not being fully pronounced, thus when he said "tuner," it sounded more like "tuna." "I tried out for the band once. Auditioned for Mel himself, the star of the band," he continued, "but he just said, 'Sorry, Charlie,' and that was it. Can you believe it? The star kissed me off!"

And that's all we're going to say on the subject. Please don't make us milk it anymore.

"Gary!" 99 hissed. "Turn a little bit to your left!" He did so, and she added, "Those two men sitting down at the table near the kitchen. They're the agents we tracked to Doesn't-Matterhorn."

Gary casually stood up and sidled over to their table. Trying his best to play it cool, he came just within earshot and muttered, "You the guys who grabbed Ima Nutt?"

The guys looked up. It was Klink and Schultz again. Trying his best to play it cool - and his was the worst best Gary had seen in a long time - Schultz replied, "Ima Nutt? We don't know what you're talking about - we know _nuh_-thing!"

"Shut up, Schultz!" Klink gave Gary the evil eye and sneered, "And what is she to you, my friend?"

"_My_ friend, not yours. And I want her back!"

"You want her back? Where are the computer components?"

"Funny you should ask."

He _did_ ask Funny.

"Knock it off." Gary pulled the package out of his jacket. "These what you're looking for?"

Klink's and Schultz's eyes went wide. Kink eagerly grabbed for the package but Gary pulled it out of the way. "Ah-ah! Not without Ima!"

Klink smirked. "Really? What makes you think we won't just take them from you?"

Hoping his nerves weren't showing, Gary opened the package enough for them to see its contents from out of reach. "Take a look. The flash drive and one of the boards aren't here. You free Ima, I tell you where I hid them."

Klink shook his fist in frustration. "Well played, Agent Whoever-You-Are," he grumbled, "but it will do you no good! No one escapes from Stalag Thirt- ... I mean, no one escapes from _me_!"

"From _us_!" countered Schultz. "At least, not lately -"

"_Schu-u-u-ultz!_"

_. . . . This is a dream, right? Gary thought. I must've hit my head somewhere between here and Athens, and everything since has been a hallucination brought on by too much late-night cable TV._

Out loud, he demanded, too sharply, "Your boss want the rest of them or not!?"

Klink smirked again. "Getting a little nervous?"

"I - I just don't want to stay in here any longer than I have to! I saw at least three people run into the restroom in the last five minutes who looked nauseous!"

"He has a good point, Herr Klink," said Schultz. "Have you ever seen _me_ order any food here?"

That was one point Klink couldn't dismiss. "All right," he reluctantly snapped to Gary. "Come with us, but no tricks!"

"Cross my heart and hope to - never mind." He hoped 99 was staying really close, and wondered how Max was managing as he, Klink, and Schultz exited the restaurant, just as the band returned and started playing, "I Just Cod to Say I Love You."

Max was flying in an airplane high over the Pottsylvanian capital city, still disguised as Jeanie's husband - no, sorry, the _other_ character - and preparing to parachute down to the perimeter of Central Control's secret base.

"I knew I should've updated my passport!" Max wailed before reluctantly jumping out.

After free-falling four thousand feet, Max grabbed the ripcord, but it was stuck. As his blood pressure and heart rate rose and his bladder level fell, Max tugged over and over again on the cord, but it refused to budge. Then, to his surprise, he saw another man actually shooting up into the sky, almost directly toward him. As soon as he realized that it was going to be a near-miss rather than a collision, he yelled out, "Hey! Do you know anything about parachutes!?"

"No! Do you know anything about trampolines!?"

Max needed a few seconds to process the strange encounter, then he started working frantically on the ripcord again. Finally it pulled out, except the chute didn't open, he just pulled the cord right out of it. There was only one thing left to do: The emergency backup gadget. He took off his cowboy hat, stuffed it into his pocket, and pulled out another hat, a large fedora. He jammed it onto his head, secured it in place, and shouted, "Activate chopper!"

Two handles telescoped out of opposite sides of the brim, while a set of helicopter blades unfolded out of the top. Max gripped the handles and the rotors spun up, gradually slowing his descent to a near-hover that brought him gently down to the ground next to a large trampoline.

Moments, later the other man came down toward the trampoline with a much greater velocity and a very loud scream. He was off-target by just enough to hit the ground instead, and pile-drive himself a hole almost a hundred feet deep and shaped just like his own body.

Max warily approached the hole and just stared in astonishment. Almost a minute later, to his even greater astonishment, the man dragged himself back to the surface. Black and blue beyond belief, his clothes in tatters, he summoned just enough strength to hold up his thumb and forefinger spaced barely apart, and moan, "Missed it by _that_ much!"

"That's it? That's the cliffhanger?"

**Hey, they can't all be nail-biters.**

**Gary and Ima (even though she was only mentioned and didn't actually appear) are copyright to me - me-me-me! Nobody else!**

"Nobody else dumb enough to want to steal them."

**Shut up! Klink and Schultz are once more copyright to Bing Crosby Productions, with thanks to actors Werner Klemperer and John Banner. Fearless Leader (he didn't actually appear either but was also mentioned) is copyright to Jay Ward Productions and DreamWorks Classics, with thanks to the voice of Bill Scott. Maxwell Smart, Agent 99, and the Chief (all of whom _did_ appear) are copyright to CBS Television Distribution and brought to life by Don Adams, Barbara Feldon, and Edward Platt. This time though, Max briefly pretended to be a character copyright to Lorimar Productions and brought to life by Larry Hagman, and a character copyright to DIC Entertainment, FR3, and Nelvana, and brought to life by Don Adams' voice. We must be running out of money; actors are double-dipping now.**

**As for Charlie the tuner... You know what, that reference can fend for itself. I'm not touching it anymore. Sorry, Charlie** \- [[SMACK!]] - **OW!**


	20. Cyber-Attack

**Chapter 19**  
**Cyber-Attack, or**  
**This Story's Going Viral**

**In our last episode**  
"It was several episodes ago!"  
**Oh, all right! In ema previous episode/em, the evil scientist Simon Bar Sinister trapped Rupert Gumby, his faithful dog Digger, and the Robot in a steel room, and rendered the Robot helpless with one of his computer worms! And now the room's walls were closing in! In a few moments, they would crush our heroes into pancakes!  
**"This is why nobody buys trash compactors anymore!" Rupert pounded his shoulder again and again against the locked door of the room, which was now less than half its original volume. He might as well have been batting at it with a dusting wand. Giving up on that idea, he shook the limp, worm-infested Robot. "C'mon, you motorized garbage can, wake up! Wake up!"  
"I'm sorry, Dave..." slurred the Robot, "I'm afraid I can't do that..."  
"You _better_ do that! Turn on your industrial-strength taser and blast that door open!"  
The Robot's response this time was a drawn-out, electronic snore.  
Digger, on the other hand, was fully awake and fully aware of what was happening, and he started whimpering in fear.  
"I know, I know!" Rupert snapped to him, his own nerves coming apart at the seams. "But this damn computer worm's got the Robot all fouled up! I can't get him to -!"  
Sudden inspiration hit Rupert, he snapped his fingers out of excited reflex, and he barked, "Got it!" Quickly, he reached into his pocket and yanked out a small bottle of pills. He plucked one out and shoved it into what looked like one of the Robot's HDMI ports. "I don't know if you can swallow things, Robot, but swallow _this_!"  
A few moments later, the Robot began to stir and spasm, like it was having a seizure, but it's seizures seemed to be waking it up! "Da-a-a-an - ge-e-er, da-an-ge-er - ! Reboot - reboot! Sys-s-s-tems restart!" The Robot stood upright, waving its arms like shaking life back into them. "All systems fully functional!"  
"Good, now use your lock-picking system and GET US OUTTA HERE!"  
The Robot swiveled around, saw the moving wall was almost upon them, and declared, "Stand back!" It then swiveled back toward the door, aimed its arms, and fired lightning bolts at the door lock. The lock exploded and the door broke open.  
Rupert grabbed Digger off the floor and sprinted out the door. The Robot trundled right behind him just one second before the moving wall slammed into the door's wall.  
They stared at the wall now firmly occupying the open doorway, and then Rupert breathlessly retorted, "That is the closest I ever want to come to having readers call my character two-dimensional!"  
The Robot swiveled slowly toward Rupert and said, "I am extremely reluctant to ask the question, but given the presence of Simon Bar Sinister, the circumstances of our imprisonment, near-termination, and escape, I must. Rupert Gumby, the pill you used to cure me of the electronic worm infection - was it a super energy vitamin pill?"  
"No, one of Digger's de-worming pills."  
" . . . . My CPU hurts."  
Rupert suddenly remembered, "If Simon gets more of his worms on the internet, your CPU won't be the only one hurting! We gotta get back to his lab!"

In their lab, Simon Bar Binister and Cad stood poised over the old laptop that they had earlier infected with Simon's custom-made computer worm. All the icons were gone from the desktop, and there were now four worms wriggling around on the screen. All that was left on the screen now was a blank blue background and a pop-up window with the message, "Checking for errors. Please do not turn off your computer." The worms started eating it and the blue screen. "Oh, I've wanted to stick it to their damn operating system for so long!" Cad grinned.  
With an evil laugh, Simon held up an Ethernet cable. "And now that our uninvited guests have been flattened into pancakes, Cad, it is time to unleash my computer worms on the entire internet! And their first upload will be to our Fearless Leader's' mainframe! From there, my worms will spread throughout Pottsylvania's dark web and destroy everything, then they will spread to the rest of the world! Within hours, the entire world will crumble at my feet!"  
"_'Pottsylvania'_!?" exclaimed Rupert from the open doorway to the lab. "As in Boris and Natasha and their Fearless Leader in Pottsylvania!? Who else is gonna show up, Snidely Whiplash!?"  
"Caution, Rupert Gumby!" declared the Robot standing next to him. "Do not tempt fate!"  
"Impossible! No one can escape from my shrinking room!"  
"We just did!" Rupert retorted.  
"Oh yeah!?" Cad retorted back. "How do we know you really _did_ escape?"  
Rupert and the Robot gave him strange looks, then looked at each other, then back at Cad, then Rupert, struggling to be patient, said, "Cad... if we _didn't_ escape, how is it that we're standing here talking to you?"  
"Maybe you're just figments of my imagination!"  
"You don't have that much imagination!" Simon sneered.  
"No, but I got plenty of muscles!" Cad charged Rupert.  
The Robot trundled past Rupert and intercepted Cad. "My muscles are hydraulic! Your organic muscles cannot compete!"  
"We'll see about that!"  
While Cad and the Robot struggled in a surprisingly even wrestling match, Rupert dodged past them toward Simon, who quickly plugged the Ethernet cable into the nearest port. "You're too late! My computer worms will now spread throughout the internet, infecting every computer in the world! Every program, every file, every -!"  
"Every program, every file, every blog, every pop-up ad, _I get it_!"  
Rupert saw a bulge wriggle along the Ethernet cable from the laptop into the wall; it really was too late to stop the worms from escaping.  
Then he saw a second laptop sitting on the counter near the Ethernet port. "But you haven't won yet!" Rupert quickly added. He sprinted to the counter, grabbed the laptop, plugged it into the other Ethernet port in the same outlet, and booted it up.  
Simon cackled. "You fool! My computer worms will infect that laptop as well!"  
"You don't run a webcast and hang around with robots without learning a thing or two about computers! Let's see what your anti-virus software and I can do against your electronic fish bait!"  
Simon cackled again. "There's no anti-virus software on that laptop! It's never even been connected to the internet! Cad just uses it to play old video games!"  
Rupert paused what he was doing, processed the statement for a few moments, and then to Simon's surprise, he grinned even wider and said, "I can work with that!"  
The desktop appeared on the laptop, and right away one of the computer worms wriggled onto the screen and began eating. All the icons on the desktop were labeled with old, classic video games. Rupert double-clicked on one. The desktop immediately changed into the background for a classic game, while the worm continued wriggling around as if nothing happened.  
"You can't stop my computer worms with a video game!" Simon boasted.  
"Oh yeah? I was an ace at Centipede'!"  
Moving a pixilated gun-toting figure back and forth along the bottom of the screen, Rupert fired at the worm, turning a little section of it into a mushroom and subsequently splitting it into two smaller worms with each shot.  
Simon reacted with shock, then an angry scowl with fists shaking, then another shock as Cad flew into him and flattened him against a wall.  
"Sucker punch, eh!?" shouted Cad, peeling himself off the wall. "I'd like to see you try that again!" He threw himself back into play against the Robot, leaving Simon dazed and stuck in a large, body-shaped indentation in the wall.  
"Not if it's in _my_ direction again," he groaned.  
Cad and the Robot resumed their clash of titans, raining blow after blow of metal and bone on each other with such deafening noise, even Digger was kept awake. He instead lumbered toward Simon, who had just finishing prying himself out of the wall, and tried to keep him at bay with his most menacing attack stance and fearsome growl.  
Simon looked pityingly at the ancient beagle swaying on his unsteady legs, listened to his asthmatic and almost subsonic wheeze of a growl, and watched as he bared what were obviously dentures. "You're kidding, right?" He just stepped around Digger and walked right past him.  
Rupert finished off the worm, whereupon a second worm wriggled onto the screen, seeking revenge for its sibling. Rupert immediately went to work against it, crowing, "Round two!"  
"You won't ruin my perfect plan for world domination that easily!" countered Simon. As he plugged yet another desktop into yet another Ethernet port and booted it up, he added, "Heh-heh, you and Cad aren't the only ones who've wasted time playing video games now and then!"  
As soon as he was booted up, he opened one of the old games on his computer. Moments later, as Rupert started firing on the third worm, a pixelated gorilla stomped onto the screen and started throwing digital barrels at his gun-toting avatar.  
"So you want to play too, huh!?" Rupert dodged his avatar out of the line of fire with one hand, and with his other hand he booted up another game. Soon, a yellow ball with a big, chomping mouth started chasing the gorilla all around the screen.  
"You don't win that easily!" Simon tapped a few quick commands, and four digital ghosts appeared on Rupert's screen, drifting toward his avatar and the big yellow mouth. Rupert had to divert his fire toward them instead, and by the time he busted them, the worm had crawled uncomfortably close to his position.  
With an evil cackle, Simon crowed, "Now I've got you!"  
"Not yet!" Rupert booted up yet another game, and his gun-toting avatar transformed into a digital frog, which he leaped onto the back of the worm before its head could get him.  
**The battle went on and on! Rupert called upon all his amazing knowledge and experience of ancient video games, but Simon matched him game for game! The diabolical computer worms, attracted by the increased CPU runtime, converged on Rupert's laptop! One mistake, and Rupert's game would be deleted, and the worms would be free to escape into the internet, where on Simon's command, they would devour every program in every computer in the world, and then the entire world would be at Simon's - ACK!  
**I told you once, _I'm_ the narrator of this story, not you! Simon started hurling digital asteroids into Rupert's screen. Rupert leapfrogged from asteroid to asteroid while trying to avoid the worms' mouths. His situation was getting desperate until he hit upon the idea to use his digital frog's tongue like a bullwhip and snap portions of the worms into oblivion, gradually cutting them down to size again - OOF!  
**That's when Simon Bar Sinister unleashed a deadly digital snake against our hero, bouncing like a coiled spring from asteroid to falling barrel to mushroom ever closer to our hero - GACKH!  
**Rupert kept right on going, one bounce ahead of the snake, and strangely changing the color of each thing he landed on as he went, until he dodged to one side and the snake fell off the screen - HEY, LEGGO!  
**_You_ leggo! _I'm_ narrating this side of the story!  
***SHOVE!* The hell you are!  
***FACE SLAP!* You've had the last eighteen chapters all to yourself! It's my turn!  
***PUNCH!* Get your own novel! This is my gig!  
***GRAB!* Who made you king of narrators!?  
***HEADLOCK!* Where did _you_ learn to _be_ a narrator, the Institute of Overacting!?  
"I got a question!" Cad interrupted. "What about us!?"  
... What about you?  
"Whaddaya think!? Me and this hunk of junk have been duking it out for the last ten minutes!"  
"Who are you calling a hunk of junk!?" retorted the Robot.  
"I'm calling _you_ a hunk of junk! And neither of you narrators are even giving us the time of day!"  
**When you start doing something worth narrating, call us!  
**"How can a battle between a powerful robot and a brute of a man not be worth narrating!?" demanded the Robot.  
Oh, big deal, a straight-forward wrestling match between man and machine! That happens in half the sci-fi stories ever made!  
**You need to punch it up, make it different somehow! In keeping with the tone and spirit of the story! Something that will _really_ draw the readers!  
**"Oh?" Cad retorted. "How about this!?"

A loud bell rang three times, and suddenly Cad and the Robot were in the middle of a wrestling ring. Cad was dressed in a skintight leotard with a colorful mask over his head, and the Robot had a fake Mohawk glued across his cranial section and gold chains draped around what would be its neck. Both roared battle cries and circled around each other, looking for an opening to attack.  
"You're goin' DOWN, Robot!" growled Cad. "I'm bringin' the pain!"  
"Robots do not feel pain! But I'm gonna open up a big can of it all over you, creep!"  
"_You're_ the only can gettin' opened up around here!"  
With two more primal screams, Cad and the Robot charged and collided with each other, bouncing them back against the elastic rope barriers and back into each other for another collision. This one knocked both of them to the mat. Cad bounded back to his feet first, sprinted to the nearest corner post and jumped on top, and then with another roar he leaped off and landed on the Robot's chest, elbow first. An electronic groan of pain exploded from its audio synthesizer.  
**But the Robot was far from finished! It rolled over and pinned Cad underneath its massive metal body! But then, with a mighty kick, Cad pushed the Robot off and bounded to his feet, ready to attack again-!**  
Quit muscling in on my turf! Cad threw himself backwards into the ropes and, like a slingshot, fired himself at the Robot again. The Robot dodged and held out an arm, and Cad plowed into and flipped himself over it to land flat on his back again. Before the Robot could pin him down, however, Cad wrapped his legs around its base and toppled it to the mat, then bounded back to his feet and lifted the stunned Robot bodily onto his shoulders! Cad then spun around several times and, in an amazing transfer of momentum, hurled the Robot straight out of the ring and crashed it right through the nearest wall!  
In the adjoining room, the Robot quickly exploded out of the debris to an upright position. Flexing its hydraulic muscles with as much aggression as his operating system could muster, it blasted out an electronic howl of defiance, "RAAAAAGH!"  
Cad crashed through the wall right next to the hole the Robot made, aggressively flexed his own muscles, and let out yet another battle cry of, "RAAAAAGH!"  
A giant walking pitcher with impractically tiny arms crashed through a third part of the wall, holding a smaller pitcher in one hand and letting out a roar of, "OH YEA-A-A-A-H!"  
The fight stopped dead as Cad and the Robot gaped in shock. "What the hell?" said Cad.  
The giant pitcher paused, looked around the room, and asked, "Where's the party?"  
"What party!?"  
"There is no party taking place here," added the Robot.  
The giant pitcher frowned, then struggled to hold out a small slip of paper in its other hand so it could read it. He then muttered, "Sorry, wrong address," and backed out through the hole it made.  
The Robot turned to Cad. "Time in." They both jumped into battle stances, roared again, and charged. This time, their collision left them tightly gripped together and slowly circling around, Cad quickly maneuvering his arms to put the Robot in a headlock.  
**The Robot struggled desperately against Cad's brute strength, but even his hydraulic muscles could not break the villainous henchman's grip!**  
_Shut up!_ But the Robot had one more trick up its metal sleeves! It began spinning 360 degrees around on the pivot junction between its upper and lower halves. Cad, who was channeling all his strength into trying to rip the Robot's head off, couldn't keep his footing and spun around with it, faster and faster like an insane merry-go-round. Cad started wailing as the rotation made him dizzier and dizzier, and his feet lifted right off the floor until the angular momentum had him horizontal in mid-air!  
Finally, with one last wail of distress, he lost his grip and flew right through one of the holes in the wall, hit the far ropes of the wrestling ring, stretched them almost to the breaking point, and was then catapulted back through the wall into the Robot's waiting outstretched arm, hit it face-first, and was knocked head over heels _twice_ before crashing to the floor!  
And just for good measure, the Robot grabbed him and hauled him onto its shoulder, trundled through the wall back into the ring, and with one last battle cry, deliberately toppled over so as to pile-drive Cad head-first into the mat! Cad went down like a sack of potatoes!  
The Robot returned to an upright position and shouted, "One... two... _three_!" The unseen bell rang three more times, and the roar of a crowd erupted from somewhere else unseen. The Robot pumped its arms in the air and shouted, "The winner and new world's champion, the Robot!" He then let out a roar of triumph to match the roar of the crowd.  
Then both were interrupted by a nearby explosion.  
The Robot turned and saw Rupert and Simon half-charred and standing next to the smoking remains of both laptops.  
Rupert grinned a dazed grin and said, "I won too."  
"You didn't win!" bawled Simon in barely controlled rage. "You just booted up so many games, the hard drives crashed!"  
"And burned." He then retorted to Simon, "And _you_ booted up just as many games as I did!"  
Simon was on the verge of tears now. "And all of my beautiful computer worms burned with them!" He covered his face with his hands and cried.  
Rupert shook his head. "I hate to see a grown man cry. . . . So I won't look."  
Rupert jogged to the ring, jumped into it, and gestured to the Robot for a fist bump. "Score two wins for the good guys!"  
The Robot completed the "fist" bump and sang, "We - are - the champions!"  
Then both were hit with taser lines and pumped with a thousand volts of electricity.  
"We - are - lightning rods..." muttered Rupert as he collapsed, now fully cooked. The Robot groaned and slumped over.  
At the other end of the taser lines was a man immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and a bowler hat, accompanied by four other well-dressed and armed gents and ladies. "I can see I arrived none too soon," he noted with a cultured, snide British accent. To Simon, he sneered, "All you needed to do was steal a video disc with the location of Pottsylvania's most top secret base, and bring it to that same base. And you and your mentally-stunted partner -"  
"Hey!" groaned Cad.  
"- could not even manage to accomplish that! Instead, you, as the Americans say, got _powned_ by a robot that looks like it was built in a salvage yard -"  
"Hey!" groaned the Robot.  
"- and a young man who is barely taller than you, Simon, and about twice as thin!"  
"Hey!" groaned Rupert.  
The pompous newcomer tased both of them again. "It's rude to interrupt someone when they're telling you how pathetic you are."  
Rupert groaned through his pain, "Digger, sic 'im!"  
He was answered by a loud snore. Digger had fallen asleep again.  
"Remind me to increase his vitamin dose," he murmured.  
"You can insult them all you like," Simon snarled to the newcomer, "but how emdare/em you insult me! I am the most brilliant, most powerful mad scientist in the world!"  
"_You_ are a self-important little git who thought he could double-cross Fearless Leader without him knowing about it! That's why I'm here. I'm Sir Giles Kumstance of the British branch of Central Control, and I'm here to take you, your so-called henchman, the disc, and these meddlers back to Pottsylvania."  
Simon and Cad were visibly terrified. They had heard numerous stories about Sir Kumstance's reputation for being one of Pottsylvania's most ruthless and cruel agents. Those of his victims who weren't dead always wished they were. They hated to imagine what horrors he would have in store for them once they -  
**Oh no you don't, it's _my_ turn! Things looked bad for our heroes! Just when they thought they had defeated Simon Bar Sinister's evil scheme, a new enemy appeared in the form of Sir Giles Kumstance, the most ruthless of Fearless Leader's minions! And now they were all . . .**  
. . . Yeah, Mr. Smarty-Narrator, they were all what!?  
**. . . I'm sorry, but even _I_ can't bring myself to say it.**  
Well don't look at me, _I'm_ not stooping that low!  
"All right, fine, _I'll_ say it!" snapped Kumstance. He took a moment to steel himself, and then declared, "You are all victims of Sir Kumstance!"  
Simon and Cad winced as if they've been stabbed with knives. Rupert and the Robot each uttered one last, nauseated groan before falling completely unconscious. Digger's snoring was interrupted by a gagging sound. And I need a really large antacid.  
**. . . . Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.**

**Okay, now _I'm_ the boldface font, so let's do the credits. Rupert, Digger, and in a surprise move, Sir Giles Kumstance are copyright to RC Gumby Productions. The Robot is copyright to Irwin Allen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television, and brought to electronic life by Bob May and the voice of Dick Tufeld. Simon Bar Sinister, Cad, and the other narrator - whose name I won't mention! -**  
**"I don't have a name!"**  
**Shut up! Were originally copyright to Total Television and Leonardo Television but now belong to DreamWorks, with thanks to the voices of Allan Swift, Ben Stone, and George S. Irving. And now we've brought emvideo games/em into the mix, can you believe it!? What do we have, Centipede and Asteroids, developed by Atari, Inc., Donkey Kong, developed by Nintendo, Pac-Man, developed by Namco, Frogger, developed by Konami, and Q*bert, developed by Gottlieb.**  
**"Don't forget the giant pitcher man!"**  
**Oh, yea-a-a-a-ah! Created by Marvin Potts for General Foods, originally brought to life by the voice of Richard Berg and the body of somebody who better have had really good balance! Did I forget anyone else!?**  
**"Come to think of it-"**  
**WHO GIVES A DAMN!? I'll be in my trailer!**  
**"Me too! They don't pay me enough for this!"**  
**{Then _I'll_ finish the credits! Be with us next time for "Technical Difficulties", or "Sir Kumstance is Beyond Our Control!"} *SMASH!* {Oooo...}**


	21. Trail of the James Boys

**Chapter 20**  
**Trail of the James Boys, or**  
**Just Following Odors**

. . . . Are they gone?

"Yeah, it's just you, now," said Fred.

Good. All right, you're going to hate me for this, but I have to do another recap. This time of chapter ten. I know, we did recaps of nine, then eleven. Sorry about skipping you, ten, but now we're going to make up for lost time -

"Will you hurry up and recap before this bunch of angry diamond rustlers beats us to bloody pulps!?"

. . . You asked for it:

FredandBarneywerevisitingaduderanchinTexaswhentheowner'sprizediamondwasstolensotheyrodeouttofindtherustlersbutnowthey'vebeenspottedandareabouttobeattacked.

Fast enough for you?

"Perfect, thanks," answered Fred, who turned back toward their approaching malefactors and tried to appear friendly. "Howdy pardners! How're the rattlesnakes treatin' ya?"

The rustlers gave no signs that they even wanted to answer as they closed in on the intruders and raised their makeshift weapons to strike -

"STOP!" someone cried.

Everyone immediately did and turned toward the source of the command, a male head poking out of one of the two tents. The head's body and another man emerged from the tent and walked toward the crowd, which quickly parted to let them through. They stopped directly in front of the two trespassers sitting on the ground near their camp, and it didn't take 20/20 vision to see how filthy and disgusting they were. Their clothes were hopelessly caked with mud, dirt, and food stains. Their faces and hair looked like they were washed with tomato juice and axle grease, plus other substances too gross to even think about. Their body odor, resulting from the probable fact that they hadn't washed themselves since John F. Kennedy was alive, would have made garbage collectors sick to their stomachs.

Joe would've loved it.

The two dirty desperadoes surveyed their catches very closely, so closely in fact that Fred and Barney could barely stand the stench. Their horses had already taken one whiff each and run for the hills. Finally, Fred couldn't take it any longer and begged, "Will you guys mind standing downwind from us!?"

"You hombres ain't in no position to tell us to do anythin'," the first one answered in a casual cowboy drawl.

"Ve're hardly een a position to _smell_ anytheeng," replied Barney in a voice slightly altered by the fact that he was tightly pinching his nostrils shut.

"Who in the name of nasal decongestants are you!?" asked Fred.

The second leader looked slightly surprised. "You never heard of us? We're known throughout the territory as the meanest, lowest, dirtiest, filthiest, smelliest desperadoes west 'a the Pecos: Rank an' Messy James."

Fred had to think several seconds, and when he was done he did an amazed double-take. "You're _new_! The writer actually came up with his own characters for villains!? I don't believe it!"

"Hey, I can be original!" shouted Rupert. "When I _want_ to be!"

"You call them original!?" retorted Ima. "Those names are just puns of historical figures!"

"Pick, pick, pick! I gave them an original gimmick, didn't I!?"

"Oh, big deal, super body odor! Anybody in a gym could've come up with _that_ idea!"

"You would know!"

"WHADDAYA MEAN BY THAT!?"

"I mean you, my treadmill, and two family-size deodorant tubes per week!"

"That's not for _my_ stench! That's to shield me from _Joe's_ stench after _he_ uses it!"

"I don't exercise on Rupert's treadmill!" retorted Joe.

"Then how does your stink get all over it!?"

"_What_ stink? I clean it every morning, and I even use my own special blend of disinfectant, with my own secret ingredients guaranteed to eliminate all harmful germs!"

"Is this the same special blend of disinfectant you used in my microwave last week?" demanded Rupert. "I opened it up, and it smelled like a family of rats ate a three-year-old hunk of Limburger cheese spiked with cat vomit, and they all died inside!"

"... How d you know what my secret ingredients are!?"

"Hey!" shouted Fred. "Who's this chapter supposed to be about, anyway!?"

"Fred?" whispered Barney.

"_Ten_ chapters, we've been waiting to show up again, and you guys are stealing our spotlight!"

"Fred?"

"What's a go-fer and his best long-distance pal gotta do to get some rackin'-frackin' respect in this damn novel!?"

"FRED!"

Fred's head whipped around. "WHAT!?"

"Look on thee table ofer there!"

Fred's eyes followed Barney's to the crude wooden folding table behind all the rustlers, and saw a huge diamond at least the size of a golf ball resting prominently on it.

"What's so interestin' on our table?" asked the first leader, Rank.

Fred thought fast. "Oh, Barney was just wondering where you bought that table. One of those would be great the next time we go camping."

"Or maybe it's the big diamond on the table," replied Messy.

"Da, dat's vhat I meant!" Barney agreed.

Fred gave blabbermouth Barney a dirty look. "No kidding," he grumbled.

"So thee stampede _vas_ a deeversion," Barney added, oblivious to his gaff. "How much ees dat diamond vorth?"

"We'll find out, when we get it to our buyer."

"Vhen do you plan to do that?" asked Barney.

"Actually," he answered with a sly grin, "when I said 'we,' I meant myself, brother Rank, and you two. I mean, we can hardly let you go an' tell the authorities about what we did."

"Why not? It's really easy," said Fred as he and his companion rose to a standing position. "You just tell your goons -" He interrupted himself as he noted that two of the James Brothers' goons were female. "- and goonettes to move aside so that we can walk to the nearest town and call the state police."

Now perturbed, Rank moved toward Fred until his face was only a few inches from Fred's, and the close proximity to Rank quickly made him nauseous. "Get this through your spotless skull, cowboy," he snarled, holding Fred's chin. "We don't want you and your two-man posse squealin' on us to the sheriff. And you're gonna come with us to make sure ya don't." He turned to his seven thugs. "Tie up the low-down varmints!"

The seven accomplices looked at each other as if it was the last thing they expected their leaders to request, but finally they shrugged, knowing theirs was not to reason why. They grabbed several lengths of rope, seized Rank and his brother, and started wrapping the ropes around them.

Rank and Messy struggled, furious that their accomplices could make such a lame-brained mistake before finally realizing the most likely reason for the mistake. "Not _us_ low-down varmints!" shouted Rank, pointing at Fred and Barney. "The varmints who were _spyin'_ on us low-down varmints!"

Realizing their error, they quickly released their leaders with hasty apologies and began tying up the boys to a tree stump. Rank supervised while Messy returned to his tent. He returned a few minutes later. "I jus' radioed our buyers. They'll be sendin' a plane to pick us up in a few hours.

"Then let's pack up the camp and be ready to leave the minute they get here," replied Rank, then he said to the others. "You heard Messy, start takin' down the tents and packin' your stuff. I'll put the diamond in the strong box."

"A few hours," whispered Fred as soon as everyone else was out of earshot. "That doesn't give us much time to come up with a plan. We gotta put our heads together and think - think _real_ hard. Barney, if you got any ideas, any questions, you just bring em out. At times like this, _any_ thoughts are useful!"

"Vhy do you think dey are called 'spaghetti vesterns?'" asked Barney.

. . . _Okay, not_ every _thought is useful_, thought Fred. "What's _that_ got to do with anything!?"

"You said any thought is useful, and dis one's been nagging at me ever since ve arrived!"

Fred impatiently replied, "I don't know, maybe they're made in Italy."

"Den vhy vouldn't dey be called 'Italian vesterns?' Say, I've heard you Americans have dese things called TV dinners' because you can eat them in front of the TV. Vell, maybe dey call them spaghetti vesterns because dey serve spaghetti in the movie theaters vhile they are playing?"

"Spaghetti in movie theaters?" The idea was so far out there, Fred actually forgot about escape plans to briefly ponder the idea. "H'oh boy, imagine that. Instead of candy and popcorn, concession stands would sell spaghetti marinara and linguini with clam sauce. And instead of soda machines, there'd be wine racks; I mean, whoever heard of drinking cherry cola with fettucini al fredo?"

"Vith food like that, de theater seats vould need trays to hold the customers' plates. Oh, and maybe a violin player vould vander up and down de aisles vhile the latest Roy Rogers movie played!"

"Or better yet, while The Godfather' played. . . . . What the hell are we talking about!? Never mind spaghetti westerns', we gotta think of a way outta this mess and get Weird Bill's diamond back!"

A few seconds later, Fred hissed, "I have an idea."

"Is it a good idea?" "I don't know, you tell me."

"I vill. It stinks!"

"You didn't even hear it!"

"I didn't haf to, I can smell it stinks plain as day!"

"That was just a breeze blowing one of the James boys' stench our way!"

Fred leaned closer to Barney to make doubly sure they wouldn't be overheard. "Okay, here's my idea. First, we lure one of those guys over here by calling him over and asking for two tall cactus juices. Once he's here, I tell him his shoelace is untied, and while he's looking at his feet, you grab a club and knock him out. Then we cut ourselves loose with his Bowie knife, then you disguise yourself as the bum and infiltrate the mob and find out who's buying the diamond. I'll sneak up and bust the diamond out of the strong box, let them see me escaping, and you come after pretending to chase me and we both escape with the diamond."

Barney thought for a few moments, then said, "It stinks."

Forgetting not to risk being overheard, Fred snapped, "Whaddaya mean it stinks!?"

"First, I do not haf a club. Second, I could not use a club if I had vone because my hands are tied up. Third, how could I knock vone of dem out and disguise myself out here vhere efery-vone can see us?"

Fred started to snap back but stopped. He hadn't really thought out those little wrinkles.

"Den you should be more careful vhen you iron your clothes," said Barney.

Fred gave him a strange look, then said, "Okay, forget the club, but I can still make my idea work. We still gotta lure one of those guys over here, but this time we'll get loose first."

"How, vithout a Bowie knife?"

"This stump's bark is rough. We oughta be able to fray the ropes on it." Fred and Barney started rubbing the ropes binding their wrists up and down on the tree stump. Their progress was agonizingly slow as the rope fibers were not as easy to wear through as Fred hoped. They also had to stop several times whenever one or more of the cowboy gang turned to look at them, and they had to pretend to be doing nothing but sitting still. Some of the gang members began to wonder if the boys' stupid, guilty-looking grins, which they put on every time the bad guys looked at them, meant something.

Finally, they felt their ropes give way. Careful to conceal their accomplishment, they leaned closer together so Fred could outline the next step in his escape plan. "Now, to lure one of them over here." He then raised his voice toward one of the rustlers who didn't appear too tough. "Hey, Silly the Kid! We're getting thirsty over here!"

The man he called turned toward him with a look of surprise and confusion. "How'd you know my name?" he asked.

Fred was surprised and confused for a second but recovered quickly. "I know everything... except where the water bucket's been for the last two hours!"

"All right, all right, keep your shirt on," he grumbled as he fetched the water bucket and brought it toward the captives.

"How can I take it off when my hands are tied up?" was Fred's sarcastic retort.

Now Barney was confused. "Tied up? I thought ve - AAK!" Fortunately, his revelation of Fred's deception was narrowly averted when Fred somehow managed to swing his foot around and shove it into the gap between Barney's legs . . . all the way in. Seeing Silly's puzzled look, Fred said, "Those darn mosquitoes, always buzzing in the worst places."

"Dat vas a pretty bad place, da," agreed Barney, in a voice much higher than normal.

Silly shrugged and bent down to serve water to Fred from the bucket with a ladle, and Fred quickly grabbed the man's arm and shoved an Uzi into his neck. "Reach for the sky, pilgrim, and no sudden moves," he muttered with conviction.

Barney was genuinely aghast. His grandparents had filled him with stories about Americans being imperialistic economic oppressors bent on world domination, and he was well aware of Americans' current tastes in entertainment, but through further research and his own video chats with Fred, he had decided that the majority of Americans weren't really the war-mongering, battle-crazed maniacs the rest of the world thought they were. Seeing Fred, however, made him wonder either if he should've listened to Grandma and Grandpa and the internet after all.

As for Silly, his casual cowboy attitude simply evaporated, replaced by jaw-shaking panic. "W-where did you g-get that g-gun!?" he stammered.

"It's what the modern stone-age men are using these days."

Still aghast, Barney exclaimed, "I thought you vanted to use a club!"

"I did, but the background checks for clubs take forever."

Rank turned away from his quick supper of baked beans, a chili dog with garlic and sauerkraut, and homemade whiskey that smelled like toilet bowl cleaner, when he noticed what was happening with his prisoners. "What's goin' on over there?"

Fred stood up, still jabbing Silly's neck with his Uzi. "What's goin' on is we're takin' over 'round here, see?" he replied in an accent more appropriate for a gangster movie before realizing his mistake. "I mean, you hombres re through pushin' us around. Give us th' diamond and let us go, or yer friend's gonna have an extra mouth."

The James brothers and all their other gang members replied by simultaneously drawing on Fred and Barney.

"Great, how am I goeeng to get all dese eenk spots off my clothes?" Barney griped.

. . . . I mean, drawing their _guns_ on you . . . you twit!

Fred decided his plan was not going as smoothly as he hoped.

"Any more bright ideas, Kemosabe?" Barney muttered.

"Soon as I think of one, you'll be the first to know."

"I hope you get one soon!" The boys were rather surprised that the shaky encouragement came from Silly. "I won a lot of their money in a poker game last night, and I think they're still sore!"

Messy called to the three huddled, hapless guys. "'Pears we have a standoff here! You pull that trigger, we pull ours, making' three stiffs instead 'a one."

"Hey, c'mon Messy!" whined Silly. "You didn't lose any money! Whadda you got against me!?"

"You always use deodorant. Ah can't stand th' stuff."

One of the James' brothers female gang members spoke up. The boys noted she talked with a strong New Zealand accent. "Rank, Messy, th' plane's gonna be here soon. There's only one way we're gonna settle this bah then."

"How's that, Annie Auckland?" asked another gang member.

"Eithah Rank or Messy and one ah tha boys have a showdown."

Rank rolled the idea around in his head, and seemed to approve. "I always like doing things th' traditional way. 'Specially when it lets me fill someone full 'a lead."

Fred didn't approve as much, but he saw no other way out of their predicament. "I guess we don't have a choice," he said. "Good luck, Barn."

"Thanks, Fred." It was a full second before Barney realized what Fred meant. "Vait a minute! Vhy should _I_ haf a showdown!?"

"You're the one who wanted to play cowboy!"

"But _you_ haf the gun!"

"I'll let you borrow it!"

"I can't shoot a gun for crap!"

Messy grinned. "Just th' kind a opponent I like."

"Forget it, little brother," Rank said to Messy, "this fight's mine. And I'm doin' it with their leader."

Fred turned to Barney. "Well, Boss, good luck. Give im hell! "

Before Barney could sputter a reply, Rank cut in, pointing at Fred. "I meant _you_, Tenderfoot!"

Fred finally saw there was no way of deflecting his fate onto some other sucker. "Mind if I write my will first?"

Shortly after, Fred completed his hastily written will, in which he ultimately decided to take everything with him. Barney and Messy signed it as witnesses, the latter getting more ink on his own hands than on the document, and finally Fred and Rank took their positions, staring at each other from two hundred feet apart, each armed with one six-shooter. Both glared at each other with calm, contempt-filled gazes, although Fred's served only to mask a combined feeling of, "How the hell did I get myself into this mess?" and, "I want my mommy!"

Messy acted as referee to the showdown. "Okay, pardners, here's th' deal. Fred wins, he and his compadre take th' diamond and leave. Rank wins, Fred and his compadre _don't_." An evil grin accentuated the "don't." "Ready? Go for it!"

_Go for it?_ Fred thought. _At the moment I'd rather go for the next bus back to New Jersey than go through a shootout with the Fastest Gunk in the West!_ In a Wild West showdown, only one man could survive, and he calculated the odds of he being the survivor as comparable to the odds of him being elected president of Pluto.

_If I_ did _get elected, I wonder if they'd tell me if it's really a planet or not._

Suddenly, as Fred stared at his opponent and contemplated a highly improbable future as an interplanetary politician, he spotted something in the distance beyond. Somehow, he managed to keep his expression neutral as he realized that it appeared to be a group of vehicles, and that meant people driving the vehicles. He suddenly remembered that Weird Bill intended to call the sheriff, meaning there was a chance this was a search party sent out to look for them and the James gang. He also realized they were too far away to notice the rustlers' camp unless they came in their direction, and he couldn't be sure they'd do that on their own.

And he suddenly realized he had the perfect means to draw them in their direction: his revolver, and the propane tank on the camp's small gas grill, whose trajectory was not too far off from that toward Rank. If only he could pull it off without getting killed . . .

Steeling himself up, he began his slow advance toward Rank. Rank immediately followed suit. At one hundred feet, they stopped and stared hard at each other, their gazes full of contempt for each other. The sand shifted in the light breeze, and a small tumbleweed drifted through the camp. An eternity seemed to pass by in which no one moved or even breathed. The eyes of the two adversaries dared each other to make the first move.

Lightning fast, Fred drew his gun. Rank, however, was even faster and fired straight at his chest. Fred however, at the same instant he started drawing, imitated a move he'd seen in a lot of action flicks, and dived hard to one side as he fired. Rank's bullet missed, while Fred's bullet deliberately missed Rank and, to his incredible surprise, hit the propane tank almost dead-center! -

\- and ricocheted harmlessly off the metal casing and shot high into the air.

The word that popped into Fred's head was more than appropriate for the situation, but not for this novel's PG rating. And Rank, quickly adjusting his gun's aim back toward Fred, didn't give him time for a second try.

"You lose," Rank grinned. Everyone in the camp knew Fred was dead meat.

But just as Rank cocked his gun for the fatal shot, a distant explosion high in the air followed by an engine whine increasing in pitch and volume caught everyone's attention. They looked up and were surprised to see a police airplane trailing smoke as it nosedived out of the sky right toward their camp. It crashed frighteningly close by, instantly turning into a huge, smoldering pile of twisted, blackened metal. A few seconds later, two men in tattered, smoldering police uniforms staggered out of the plane in mutual dazes.

That's when Fred realized the plane fell out of the same part of the sky his bullet flew toward.

"Oops."

In all fairness, he wanted to attract the attention of the police. He certainly got the attention of these two.

The speechless shock of the other gang members suddenly turned into panic and they started running for cover and shooting at anything that moved. One of them suddenly noticed the group of vehicles approaching at high speed, attracted by the crash. Just a minute later they arrived, and their passengers, who indeed turned out to be a search party consisting of three police jeeps and four horsemen, stormed the camp.

Fred and Barney eluded their captors and rejoined. "Now's our chance to get the diamond," Barney shouted over the firefight, and they hurried to the table. Just then another plane landed nearby, but his one was obviously not connected with the police. The boys reached the table and grabbed the diamond, just as a lasso landed around their bodies and yanked them together, unable to move.

Messy appeared, holding the other end of the lasso, with his brother. "Not so fast, pardners," he said. "We all got an appointment with an important client, and we don't like to disappoint im." So saying, Rank and Messy hauled Fred and Barney and the diamond toward the plane, where two guards in foreign uniforms ushered them inside. Before the police forces could stop them, the plane taxied across the plain and took off toward the east.

The sheriff's anger was partially abated only by the fact that they managed to catch everyone else in the James brothers' gang. The rustlers were quickly taken away in all but one of the vehicles while the sheriff joined the horseman who was the oldest of the four. "Well, at any rate we just might get an idea where the ringleaders are going if these desperadoes decide to talk. Thanks for you and your sons' help, Mr. Cartwright."

"Pleasure to help, Sheriff," he answered. "I'm sorry we couldn't recover Bill's diamond. Or rescue those two boys."

His youngest son was equally concerned. "I've heard some of the things Rank and Messy James do to their captives. Those boys could be in big trouble."

"Not much we can do about it, Little Joe," said the eldest son. "All we can do is hope."

"C'mon, boys," said Mr. Cartwright, turning his mount, "we better get back to the ranch. Those cattle aren't gonna round up themselves."

His middle son, the largest and most brutish-looking of the quartet, winced in dismay. "I'm still saddle-sore from the last roundup, Pa! Why can't we use trucks and helicopters like everyone else nowadays?"

"Would you rather re-shoe a horse or flush out an oily crankcase?"

"Giddyup, girl!" Hoss quickly told his horse. "We got a long ride ahead!"

**Rank and Messy James and their minions are copyright (more or less) to RC Gumby Productions. So is the sheriff. The names of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble/Ruble are copyright to Hanna-Barbera and Warner Brothers, with original thanks to the voices of Alan Reed and Mel Blanc. Ben, Adam, Little Joe, and Hoss Cartwright are presently copyright to CBS Television Distribution, with respective thanks to Lorne Greene, Pernell Roberts, Michael Landon, and Dan Blocker for bringing these pardners to life.**

"Boy, theese novel ees churneeng out a bonanza of cameos," Barney quipped, followed by a hyena-like laugh.

"Ah, shaddap and pass me the in-flight magazine!"


	22. Shanghai Surprise

**Chapter 21**  
**Shanghai Surprise, or**  
**Ship of Fools**

"Who're you calling a Fool!?" shouted Joe.

Go away!

Myran, Jerry, and Rhoda told me explicitly that they didn't want a recap of their section of this story, so I'm going to do it anyway.

Jerry, Chip, and Bo and Luke Duke accidentally beamed themselves to an uncharted desert isle via Myran's transmat. Hours later, Myran and Rhoda landed on the same island in a top secret Air Force jet and joined up with Jerry's group, whereupon Myran made radio contact with a passing fishing vessel and requested a pickup. The ship arrived shortly thereafter, and its crew took Jerry, Myran, Rhoda, Chip, Bo, and Luke prisoner at gunpoint and ferried them back to their ship.

And now the six captives were aboard the vessel, which immediately chugged away from the island, dragging the Air Force jet behind it on log floats. A crew emerged from the vessel to climb down to the jet to service and refuel it while the four gunmen brought the captives onto the main deck, where they met the main dork of the ship.

"And just who are you calling a dork!?"

You, and since I'm the narrator and not actually a player in the story, you can't do anything about it. Nyah!

"So you're the skipper of this luxury yacht?" asked Jerry.

"I am the _captain_, madam!" he answered with indignant flamboyance. "Captain Rehab, at your service." Dressed in the elegant garb of the classic eighteenth century pirate, Rehab bowed deeply, tipping his hat with an extravagant flourish.

"At our service? Great!" replied Rhoda. "I'd like a pneumatic beanbag stool on the sheep-shearing deck please, with a large coconut and veal smoothie. And don't forget the sunblock; I burn easily."

Rehab gave her a sinister chuckle as he put his hat back on. "I'm afraid our courtesy does not extend to that . . . A _what_ on the _where_, with _what_?"

"Ah'm more surprised she asked for sunblock!" replied Bo. "Ah thought for sure she'd use some other weird thing to prevent sunburn."

Rhoda looked confused at Bo. "_Sun_burn? No, I want to solder a few garden gnomes to my curling iron, and I don't want to get burned by the melted ceramic."

" . . . . Ah need GPS ta talk to ya."

"Ohhhh dear," mused Rehab. "Seems she already has the madness of the sea. Fortunately, a little keelhauling is the perfect cure for it, and my hull has an excellent supply of barnacles for the occasion!" He chuckled at his little sadistic joke. "There are enough for all of you, if I feel like it!"

Myran, a veteran of several missions on several primitive and sometimes hostile worlds, didn't lose his cool one bit. "Somehow I doubt you would've gone to all the trouble of taking us prisoner if you simply intended to kill us."

Rehab acknowledged the point. "An excellent supposition, Mr. . . ." He trailed off, prompting Myran to supply his name.

"Myran."

"Myran," Rehab repeated, studying Myran's geeky appearance. "How appropriate. Yes indeed, I do not plan to harm you, at least not yet, and not too seriously. But for now, I'm certain you must all be exhausted after your long ordeal on that uncharted island." He gestured to three armed sailors. "Escort our guests to their quarters below and see to providing them bread and water." And with a grandiose bow, he exited the bridge while his sailors escorted the guests (prisoners) to their quarters.

Their "quarters" was the ship's brig, which was spacious enough to accommodate six people comfortably, provided they were from Lilliput. . . . Google it.

Amenities included one small porthole through which night was falling, a rickety card table that looked too flimsy to even hold a deck of cards, and three bunks mounted one over the other on the same wall, which they would have to split between the six of them - well okay, _five_ of them, since Chip didn't need sleep. Supper included hardtack, a kind of hard biscuit that sailors commonly ate centuries ago, and a stew made of ingredients whose combined appearance vaguely resembled low-grade crude oil.

"Tastes like it, too," Jerry grumbled after her first bite of it contorted her mouth into at least six sharp curves. "I lived through the Depression, and even _then_, I would've tossed this out the window!"

To her disbelief, Myran was eating spoonful after spoonful, and actually seemed to like it. "When you've lived in as many primitive cultures as I have, you quickly learn to eat anything edible." He gulped another spoonful and reassessed its taste. "And a few things that aren't."

Luke bit into a piece of hardtack. It didn't even dent, although it felt like his front teeth did.

Bo used some of his stew to get rid of the squeaks in the bunk frames.

Chip was studying the door's lock. "Can you do anything with the lock, Chip?" asked Myran.

"Negative. The locking mechanism has no electronics for me to override."

All the while, Rhoda lay on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling and thinking out loud, "Why do these pirates want a fighter jet? It isn't nearly powerful enough to get to Neptune and reach Area 52. So, they can't be looking for the legendary Golden Hamster Wheel of the Elvis Galaxy, but then what? Maybe they want to infiltrate the Blue Angels, steal all their Blu-ray copies of The People vs. Larry Bird', and sell them on the black market? They'll never get all the money back that this expedition cost on papaya liqueur, mustache wax, and royalties to Carnival Cruises. If they really want to get rich quick, they should wise up and get into interpretive sandblasting. When the Andalusian metal flu epidemic cripples the country's steam shovel population, demand for inventive ways of digging will skyrocket. What about picking the lock?"

It was a full second before Jerry, Myran, Bo, and Luke realized with a shock that Rhoda was suddenly talking to them, and that she asked a completely sensible question. Even Chip seemed to need time to acknowledge the event, after which he replied, "I am not programmed for picking locks.'"

"No, but _ah_ know somethin' about it!" Bo declared. "Anybody got somethin' thin and sharp?"

"Anyone strong enough to rip a nail out of this table?" asked Myran.

"No need," said Luke. He took his piece of hardtack and slammed it twice against the table, knocking the legs off and collapsing it. He then repeatedly hit one of the legs, splintering the wood around one of the nails they needed. "Here ya go."

"I should get the recipe for these biscuits," said Jerry. "My daughter wants to make a rock garden."

"Rock garden," repeated Chip. Reciting from memory banks, "A decorative botanical arrangement bordered by a perimeter of raised stones." He stared at the biscuit still in Luke's hand and added, "Cursory spectral analysis of the biscuit's chemical composition suggests that your analogy, Jerry, may not be entirely inaccurate."

"I had a rock garden once," said Rhoda, "but there was a fungus blight and the rocks all died."

"Do y'all mind? Ah'm workin' here!" snapped Bo as he carefully probed the door's keyhole. "Almost . . . got it . . . _There!_" An audible click sounded in tandem with his triumph.

Everyone else joined him at the door as he instructed, "All right, everybody quiet now. Top priority is ta get control of our jet back. If we can get to a lifeboat, we can sneak out to th' jet, jump the crooks refuelin' it, and take off before anyone on the ship can react. It'll be a tight fit, but ah think we can all get in. Ready?"

"Let's do it!" agreed Luke. Jerry, Rhoda, and Myran nodded in agreement. Bo carefully opened the brig door.

One of the three armed guards on the other side presented Bo with a tarnished pot and several dented tin cups on a rusty old metal tray and asked, "Coffee?"

All Bo could think of was to take the tray, give the guard a half-hearted, "Thanks," and close the door again. This was immediately followed by not only the sound of the lock being re-locked, but the sounds of several other very loud locking mechanisms being added onto the outside of the door.

"I hope it's decaf," said Myran.

Shortly after, the six captives were escorted out of their "guest quarters" back to the bridge to meet Captain Rehab again. He was again dressed in flamboyant pirate clothes, and he tipped his hat with a grand flourish in greeting. "Ahoy again, Mateys! Was the coffee to your satisfaction?"

"That wasn't coffee, that was liquid rocket fuel!" Jerry retorted.

"Ah took one small sip, and now ah'll never blink again!" added Luke.

Rhoda was still gulping down her second cup. "Just like Joe always makes."

"I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here again."

"Does it have something to do with that seaplane parked next to the ship?" asked Myran.

Rehab smiled in confirmation. "Indeed it does, Mister... Myran. I regret that I will no longer be your hosts for the remainder of your voyage. My humble vessel is not swift enough to transport you and your remarkably advanced aircraft to your destination in a satisfactory amount of time."

"Aw, what a shame," replied Bo sarcastically. "Ah was looking forward to th' shuffleboard tournament."

"Just what're ya plannin' to do with our jet?" demanded Luke. "If ya think you or anybody else can make us tell ya its secrets, think again! Bo an' I're trained to withstand any form of harsh questioning, truth drugs, torture, or mind control. Nothin'll make us talk!"

"I am also highly trained to resist many different methods of questioning," Myran stated. After a short pause, he quickly added, "Not that I'm actually keeping any important secrets. I'm just an ordinary young man from a small town in New Jersey. Nothing at all unusual about that."

"Excuse me," Rhoda cut in, "when did torture or mind control come into this? I don't want anybody tampering with _my_ mind, Buster!"

"Rhoda," said Bo, "tampering with your mind would be like tryin' ta untangle Christmas tree lights after twenty years in th' attic."

"That reminds me," said Jerry. "Soon as I get home, I gotta get the decorations out."

"Do you seriously entertain the notion that you will ever be returning to your place of residence?" scoffed Rehab.

"Do you seriously have to use three times as many words as you need!?"

"_SHUT UP!_"

His captives fell into stunned silence. "How's that for being economical with words?" snapped Rehab. He quickly restored his flamboyance and continued, "My employer is most anxious to receive his new jet plane, as well as the six of you. We have already finished refueling the jet, and a pilot will fly it alongside the seaplane you'll be traveling in, so if you will accompany my men to the seaplane, you'll be getting underway almost immediately."

Rehab's men surrounded the captives and started to lead them away when Bo interrupted, "Wait a minute, ya said your 'employer.' Who is yer 'employer'?"

"Yeah, just who's running this show anyway!?" asked Jerry.

Immediately, the bridge's TV transceiver came on, showing who was running this show. "Allow mee to eentroduce myself! Boris Badenov, at your serveece!"

"Boris Badenov!" exclaimed Jerry, stunned by the fact that yet another TV character had shown up in this story. "_You're_ behind all this!?"

"Dat's ri-!"

"A-_HEM!_" snapped someone out of sight behind Boris.

Boris instantly deflated. "I-I mean, dat's _wrong_! Fearless Leader is behind all dis!"

Fearless Leader appeared behind Boris and added, "You bet your booties, I'm behind all this!"

Rehab turned to the screen, grandly removing his plumed hat in respect for his disrespectful boss. "Ah, my dear Fearless Leader! I am honored that you would grace my vessel with your personal communique! I know well how preoccupied you must be with your grand plan, and that you would take the time to address me and my humble crew directly -"

"Sharrup you mouth!" Boris shouted.

"You took the vords right out of my mouth, Badenov." Fearless Leader always hated the way Rehab droned on and on in that annoying gentlemanly manner. He then rounded on Boris and warned, "Don't do that again!" He then rounded back to Rehab and demanded, "Rehab, just get them on the plane and get back to lookeeng for my lost ship!"

"You lost a ship around here?" Rhoda asked.

"Yes! I spent over a month building it, and then eet and eet's bottle fell overboard dureeng my cruise last summer."

The captives were dumb. "You built a ship in a bottle and - wait a minute, what'd that narrator call us!?" snapped Bo.

. . . . Oh, sorry. The captives were dumb_founded_.

"That's better."

"But less accurate," sneered Boris.

"Shut up!" To Fearless Leader, Bo resumed his lines. "Ya built a ship in a bottle and lost it overboard, and now you sent out a real ship ta search for it!?"

"Well, it is steady work," replied Rehab, "which has been quite difficult to come by in Pottsylvania in recent times. Now, if you would be so kind as to accompany my -"

"_Vill you get on the plane alreadee!_" shouted Fearless Leader, galvanizing Rehab's men into quickly ushering the captives from the bridge and onto the seaplane.

Boris grinned. "You really know how to eenspire people, F.L."

F.L. smirked. "Eet's all about motivation, Badenov. The motivation to stay alive. _And don't call me F.L.!_"

Boris quickly stuttered, "S-sorry, F.L.!"

As soon as its doors were closed, the seaplane's engines roared into life and it sped across the water to a near-perfect takeoff. At the same time, a Pottsylvanian pilot climbed into the refueled top-secret jet, still nestled in its island-made log floats, and started its engines.

Just then, one of Rehab's men spotted something floating in the water not far away. Rehab pulled an old-fashioned spyglass out of his coat and peered at the object. "It appears to be an old deck chair, with a -! Fearless Leader, it appears to be your missing ship in a bottle! Seaman, patch the remote camera into his viewscreen and aim at the lawn chair!"

The seaman picked up a video camera, hooked it into the communications system, and Fearless Leader was able to see his long-lost ship. Apparently it had managed to stay on the lawn chair it had been laid on when a steward ran across the cruise ship's deck and knocked it overboard. It was the steward's third mistake: First, he hadn't put enough sugar in Fearless Leader's lemonade (it took over a week for his lips to un-pucker), then he ran from the firing squad Fearless Leader sic'ed on him.

"At last!" cheered Fearless Leader. "I can finally feenish my boat by putting de flag of Pottsylvania on top!"

"I steel got eet right here," said Boris, holding up a tiny Jolly Roger flag.

As Fearless Leader was celebrating, the jet and its log cradle began speeding across the water. At takeoff speed, it lifted out of its floating cradle and flew after the Pottsylvanian seaplane. As it did, however, the cradle kept going under its own momentum, until it rammed into the lawn chair. It and its cargo, both battered beyond recognition, quickly sank out of sight.

Fearless Leader was furious. "_Eediots! You sank my bottled ship!_"

"...Hoh boy," muttered Boris. "Can't dis story theenk of any pop-culture references from _dis_ century?"

"Velcome aboard Pottsylvania Airlines," said the flight attendant standing at the head of the passenger compartment, holding a microphone and a loaded rifle. Jerry, Myran, and Chip sat on one side of the aisle. Bo, Luke, and Rhoda were directly across on the other side. "Your seatbelts have already been fastened for you for thees flight. To ensure your maximum safety, de seatbelts are Pottsylvania's patented one-vay belts. Vunce buckled, dey stay buckled no matter vhat you might try."

"If that is true," asked Chip, "how do you intend to conduct us into custody in Pottsylvania after the aircraft lands?"

"Ve have a technician vith a blowtorch at de airport. During de flight, please observe de no smoking' sign. Eet shorts out now and then, so please report eet to vun of de flight attendants eef eet does." She then pressed a button over her head and a small transparent face mask popped out of an overhead compartment. The captives immediately recognized it as the standard oxygen mask every commercial airplane is equipped with. "In case of cabin depressurization, or eef de plane ees forced to make an emergency landing, press de red button over your seat and de cyanide mask vill fall out. Eef your neighbor ees unable to put on his or her mask -"

"Wait a minute, _cyanide_ mask!?" exclaimed Jerry. "Don't you mean oxygen mask!?"

"Vhy vould ve vant to survive to be caught by enemy nations?" asked the attendant, genuinely puzzled by the question. "Besides, oxygen's too expensive."

"You can't put a price on life!" said Luke firmly.

"Of course you can," she contradicted and held up a small blue book. "Eet's all detailed here een Pottsylvania's offeecial price guide!" She put it down and continued, "Please note de locations of emergency exits. Vun ees located under each of your seats. Een de event of an emergency, or just eef de pilot feels like eet, de emergency exits vill open and your seats vill drop out of de plane."

"You can't do that!" blurted Rhoda. "Sudden falls make my ears pop like crazy!"

"Even her _ears_ are crazy," muttered Bo under his breath.

The flight attendant continued. "As dis ees an overnight flight, ve vill now be dimmeeng de lights and filling de cabin vith anesthesizing gas so dat you can all get some sleep -"

"_Gas!?_" shrieked Jerry. "The hell you will!"

"De hell ve are." She and the other attendants quickly put the fake cyanide masks over their mouths, and thick white vapor quickly poured out of the air vents. The captives struggled and tried to hold their breaths, but it was no use. Within seconds, all of them fell unconscious - except for the one captive who didn t need to breathe.

"I am not affected by anesthesizing gas, and I do not require sleep," Chip stated after the vapors cleared.

The flight attendant opened an overhead compartment and pulled out a club three times the size of a baseball bat. "Will _dis_ have an effect on you!?" she threatened.

" . . . . Entering sleep mode."

After who knows how long - hopefully long enough to synch up this subplot with all the other ones, the captives were awakened to breakfast being served on the flight. I don't even want to talk about what the breakfast was; I can't believe Myran asked for seconds! Afterward, five of the six captives spent the next two hours struggling with the one-way seatbelts, and came to the unhappy conclusion that they really weren't designed to be unbuckled. Time after that was spent in their own contemplations.

Bo and Luke contemplated how they were now facing the kind of international intrigue and covert enemy action they thought only existed in spy movies. They fervently hoped they were ready for the harsh trials that could possibly lie ahead. They also wondered how the hell they were going to explain to their CO that they lost the Air Force's most advanced jet fighter ever thanks to three weird civilians, two cartoon villains, and a robot teddy bear that channeled Leonard Nimoy.

Jerry contemplated that her relatives would probably banish her to a nursing home if she ever told them what had been happening to her these past few days. She'd be lucky if they didn't bring back the use of strait-jackets just for her.

Rhoda . . . I can't even _begin_ to describe what she contemplated, so let's move on...

Chip had an extra two hours of contemplation; he only needed four-tenths of a second to calculate that he wouldn't be able to break out of the seatbelts. And he didn't so much contemplate anything as run a Level One system diagnostic on his memory bank, isolating and fixing any bad sectors caused by failures of logic junctions, mostly brought on by failures in reality's logic.

And Myran? The ever-resourceful, never-say-die alien cultural observer, veteran of nine previous assignments on primitive planets all over this part of the galaxy, was racking his brain to discover a way for him and his companions to escape.

"I think I need a bathroom trip," he muttered, his lower half shifting noticeably in his seat. Even ever-resourceful, never-say-die alien cultural observers are powerless against the law of conservation of matter.

More time passed. The flight attendants occasionally appeared, either taking orders for food and drinks, fluffing pillows, or refilling the arsenic shakers, but usually the captives were left to themselves. Finally, the captain's voice over the loudspeaker: "Dees ees your captain speaking. Ve vill be landing at Pottsylvania International Airport shortly. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts for landing. Hahahahaha!"

"Is the pilot an example of what humans refer to as an intelligent anus?" asked Chip.

"You got it," replied Jerry.

"Current temperature at de airport ees 69 degrees at just past noon local time. Skies are currently grey vith a chance of acid rain late in de day, and maybe a strafing run by de evening. Pottsylvania Airlines hopes you've had a thoroughly unenjoyable flight, and hopes to abuse you again vun day. For now, dees ees your captain, Bombay Kamikaze, vishing you a pleasant incarceration here een Pottsylvania, and hoping you'll fly de unfriendly skies vith us again. In your next life." And his broadcast ended with another brief fit of laughter.

"Ah wish ah could go up to th' captain's cabin and shove a few dozen airsick bags down his throat," muttered Luke.

"Maybe you'll get your chance in a minute or two," Jerry whispered, carefully continuing to look nonchalant.

All five of her companions avoided turning toward him sharply so as not to arouse their captors' suspicions, but their surprise was genuine. Myran was the first to catch on. "You found a way to get loose?"

"I've been loosening the screws on one end of my belt, and I think I can pull this thing off now." So saying, she ever-so-gently tugged on the loosened end of her one-way seatbelt, and after what seemed like an unbelievably long moment, it silently popped out.

Jerry's next move was obvious: to wait for one of the flight attendants to approach so she could grab her and force the others to release them. "Ya better hurry," whispered Bo as he stared out the window at the approaching airstrip. "Looks like we're about ta land."

Jerry's first chance came almost immediately as one of the attendants came down the aisle. She steeled himself to leap up and seize her, and with lightning speed that anyone even a quarter of her age would be hard-pressed to duplicate, she pounced. At that exact second, the plane swerved sharply, so that instead of grabbing her, Jerry flew across the aisle and landed in Bo's lap. Their captors turned and gaped at Jerry's clumsy attempt at aerial acrobatics, then turned sharply toward the windows and gaped even more as another airplane zoomed past their plane with barely twenty yards to spare.

"Ah've had girls fallin' fer me before," Bo remarked, "but never like this."

"Skyhog!" the captain suddenly shouted over the loudspeaker. "Vhere'd you learn to fly, _Grand Theft Auto_!?"

"Since vhen does de airport have more than vun incoming flight a day!?" one of the flight attendants remarked.

"Don't look now," cried another attendant at a window, "but here comes _another_ vun!" Indeed, through the window some of the captives could see a third airplane also coming up rapidly from behind.

"Oh no you don't!" they heard the captain shouting. "I'm not letting you pass me too! BANZAI!" Suddenly the plane shot forward at an acceleration of at least forty g's, shoving the captives halfway through the backs of their seats and hurling the flight attendants into the back wall. It looked like Captain Kamikaze was willing to go to any lengths to land ahead of this plane, and within seconds his plane touched down on the runway. In his zeal, however, he not only failed to realize his plane was at five times the regulation runway velocity, he also forgot about the plane that had already passed him, which was now braking to a stop at the end of the runway. Everyone in the passenger compartment clearly heard his blood-curdling scream as the brakes slammed into effect full-force. At the same time, the third plane's pilot screamed and smashed the brake pedal right through the cabin floor. The pilot of the first plane saw the other two on the instrument panel and screamed.  
Fortunately, all three blood-curdling screams quickly stopped as the three planes smashed into each other and blew up. Who needs all that hysteria?

**Checking off the list here: Jerry, Rhoda, Myran, Chip, and Captain Rehab - *rolls eyes* Maybe the writer should stick to stealing TV villains - are copyright to RC Gumby Productions. Bo and Luke Duke are copyright to Warner Brothers Television, and their acting is copyright to John Schneider and Tom Wopat. Boris Badenov and Fearless Leader are copyright to Jay Ward Productions and DreamWorks Classics, and their voices are copyright to Paul Frees and Bill Scott. And for our newcomers . . . Wait, there weren't any new TV or movie characters this chapter!?**  
"I've got enough trouble keeping track of who's here already!" replied Rupert.


	23. Road Trip

**Chapter 22**  
**Road Trip, or**  
**Queasy Riders**

. . . Gimme a minute here . . . Let's see, which group is up next? . . . . Ummmmm - here we are! Homer and Joe . . aaaand Doctor Smith.

. . . Oh the pain, the pain.

"I'll thank you to refrain from co-opting my signature catchphrase!" warned Smith.

Funny he should've been worried about that, considering what was about to happen to him. To recap, even if you don't want it, Homer and Joe were talked into a sting operation to get the goods on possible steroid use among the St. Louis baseball team. They found the team's doctor, Doctor Smith, and discovered he was being duped by a crook named Garrowitz into giving the players steroids to affect the game outcomes. Garrowitz got wise to the sting -

"Thanks to Joe's big mouth!" griped Homer.

"Sure, blame me!"

"I am!"

Shut up! And he brought out seven of the meanest, ugliest goons -

"Who're you callin' ugly!?" one of them shouted.

DO YOU PEOPLE WANNA DO THIS!?

"I'd rather do _anything_ than be here waiting for these goons to turn me into raspberry jam!" Homer replied.

"For once, I agree with you!" Smith moaned.

"Not me, I'm good right here!" Garrowitz replied. The Malicious Seven nodded in agreement.

In fact, the only reason they didn't start the murder and mayhem right there in the locker room was that the stress of their predicament caused Joe to start sweating. Joe, whose very existence revolved around garbage, starting sweating in a locker room...

Moments later, Garrowitz and his minions rushed out into the open air of the stadium, dragging Homer, Joe, and Smith along as fast as their legs could carry them, choking and retching and gasping for breath all the way.

"GEEZ!" Garrowitz exploded at Joe when he could finally get some clean air into his lungs. "The family of skunks that died under my house smelled better than you!"

Smith sucked in fresh air like a bellows, gaped at Joe, and gasped, "You, Sir, are a chemical weapon with legs! In the name of hygiene, have you never heard of soap!?"

"Soap gives me a rash."

"_I've_ got a rash in my sinuses and both lungs!" coughed Homer. He then looked at everyone else while pointing at Joe and added, "And I _work_ with this guy on a regular basis!"

"Then in your case, beating you to a bloody pulp is going to be a mercy killing!" snapped Garrowitz. "Boys, give em the works!"

His boys couldn't give em the works right away. Four of them, although maintaining firm grips on their captives, were still bent over, gasping for air. Two more were flat on the ground, fighting to stay conscious. The other one had grabbed a large water bucket on the way out of the locker room, and was currently losing his third previous meal into it.

"Aw c'mon, fellas! Walk it off!" wailed Garrowitz. "You're supposed to be the toughest enforcers in the business, so start acting like it! Look at me! You don't see me knocked down, do you!?"

"Indeed," sneered Smith sarcastically, "and of course your superhuman resistance to intolerable odors has nothing to do with that jock strap you have secured tightly over your nose!"

"Is that jock strap clean?" asked Joe.

"Against _your_ stink, what difference does it make!?"

His goons began their slow recovery from the odiferous onslaught. "Feeling better now!?" Garrowitz snidely commented. "Then give these guys the beating of their lives - the _last_ beating of their lives! But when you're done, be sure you drag all of _that_ one's remains clear out of here!" Pointing at Joe, he added, "So he doesn't kill all the grass!"

Suddenly everyone heard a crash from the far end of the stadium. The crash was a black Trans Am smashing through the outfield wall. Said Trans Am then roared across the field straight toward them, at a minimum of two hundred miles an hour by the look of it, followed more slowly by a line of squad cars and the surveillance van.

"What is that guy, crazy!?" yelped Garrowitz! "Stop him!"

Two of his goons pulled out handguns and opened fire. Both were crack shots and hit the target every time, and every time, the bullets just bounced off the car's hood and windshield without making so much as a scratch. With collective shrieks of fright, they and the rest of party scattered, releasing their captives in the process as the car slammed on its brakes and skidded to a stop just inches from the biggest of Garrowitz's thugs. A moment later, the driver leaped out, threw himself in a slide over the hood, and used his momentum and his fist to knock out the thug with one punch.

"All right, who's next!?" the driver challenged, holding up both fists.

"Oh Sir, you arrived just in the nick of time!" crowed Smith. "Like a knight in shining armor!"

"That's me, Knight. Michael Knight." He noticed more than half of Garrowitz's other goons picking themselves up to charge, and he turned to his car and ordered, "Go get em, KITT!"

The car, with no driver at all, revved its engine and burned rubber. Garrowitz's goons had to dive out of the way again, but this time the car did several tight 360's and literally corralled them in a tight circle of dust and torn-up turf.

Homer gaped at Joe again. "If we run into the Beaver in the next chapter, I quit!"

The police vehicles finally caught up with them and disgorged their uniformed passengers amongst the crowd, including Frank Drebin of Police Squad. "All right, Garrowitz!" he shouted, "The game's up! Reach for the sky!"

Garrowitz looked up. "I can't, my arms aren't long enough!" he retorted. "Besides, you got nothing on me!"

"Wrong, Garrowitz!" replied Michael. "KITT broadcast a counter signal modulated to precisely cancel out your jamming signal, leaving only the signal from Homer and Joe's bugs! We got every word you said!"

Before anyone could react, Garrowitz lunged for Homer, grabbed him in a choke hold, yanked out a gun from his pocket, and growled, "You'll never take me in! Now back off or the narc gets it!"

"Oh yeah!?" retorted Frank. "Well, _two_ can play at that game!" He suddenly grabbed Smith in a choke hold and held out his own gun.

"Unhand me, Sir!" wailed Smith. "I'm an innocent bystander, I swear!"

"You shouldn't swear, it's bad manners!" retorted Frank.

Hoist by his own petard . . . I think . . . Garrowitz quickly dragged Homer to the visiting team's bench, pulled him down, ducked behind the water cooler, and opened fire. Frank dodged the bullets and dragged Smith into the bench, ducked behind the other side of the water cooler, and returned fire. He and Garrowitz traded shot after shot for several moments, all the while crouched no more than two feet away from each other.

"There goes my big entrance into this novel," Michael muttered.

"Upstaged by a clueless clown," Joe observed. "Now you know how Rocky the Flying Squirrel felt."

Michael then noticed the putrid smell that incapacitated everyone earlier. "Did I get here too late? Smells like somebody already died here!"

"Nah, that's my new odorant," said Joe.

"Don't you mean _de_-odorant?"

"Why would I?"

The bench fight finally ended. Homer and Smith scrambled back onto the field and joined their companions, followed by Garrowitz who was handcuffed and moving under the gun-toting Frank's directions. "All right, Garrowitz, over to the black-and-white!"

Frank led Garrowitz to a zebra standing by on a leash attached to a squad car's rear bumper. He hoisted him onto the zebra's back and barked, "Take em away!" The police cars, each with zebras leashed to their rears with bad guys bundled on their backs, slowly rolled away, just fast enough for the zebras to trot along comfortably behind. Frank got back into his car and followed them.

Michael Knight turned to Homer, Joe, and Smith, and asked, "Do I get my intro now?"

"Go ahead," replied Homer.

Michael's car slowly rolled to a stop next to him. "Good work rounding em up, KITT. You ever think about joining a rodeo?"

"I have _never_ thought about such a thing, Michael," replied a huffy electronic voice from the car. "I was designed to protect the public, not to lasso agitated horses and bulls."

Smith stared in shock at the car, then turned to Homer and Joe and wailed, "Gentlemen, I'm afraid the stress of our prior predicament has fractured my sanity! I could swear I just heard this automobile speak!"

"You _did_ hear me speak," KITT replied. "As for your current psychological state, that is anyone's guess."

Smith abruptly shifted from shock to outrage. "_How_ dare you, you malicious motorcar! To think that you, a mere mechanical contrivance that could never hope to fathom the human psyche, would have the temerity to label me, Zachary Smith, a candidate for a lunatic asylum!"

"You _are_ talking to a car," Homer pointed out.

"Bah!"

Michael noticed Joe was staring at him. "Something wrong?"

"You look familiar."

"He _oughta_!" exclaimed Homer.

Joe continued to Michael, "Were you a lifeguard in Malibu?"

Homer paused, comparing Joe's apparent TV preferences to his own and realizing he shouldn't have been surprised knowing Joe as he did. Then he realized there might be another reason and asked Joe, "Were _you_ in Malibu?"

"I went swimming there once, then I got banned from the beach for life."

"Was that the day the record number of dead fish washed ashore?" asked Michael.

"All this has been extremely interesting, I am certain," Smith declared all sarcastic and high-and-mighty, "but now I must be on my way. Important medical business, you understand."

Smith started to leave but Michael grabbed his shoulder. "Not so fast, Doc."

"Unhand me, Sir! I am completely innocent in all of this!"

"Yeah, unfortunately, that's pretty much the impression we got from the recording. Thing is, Garrowitz's connections might get the impression you ratted him out to the police. So, until further notice, you're in protective custody."

"'Protective custody', indeed! A more transparent euphemism for imprisonment, I have never heard! I shall protest to the highest authority, mark my words!"

Michael shrugged. "All right, if you'd rather handle Garrowitz on your own, it's your call. You won't have long to wait; if his connections are as big as we think, he and his pals'll probably be out on bail within an hour."

Like a pendulum, Smith swung back to timid again. "Well... it would be rude of me to refuse such a gracious offer of assistance."

"And now that we have that out of the way," said Homer, "Joe, we better get going."

"Hold on, fellas, Garrowitz's pals might have as much of a beef with you as with Doc here."

Smith glared at Michael. "Don't call me Doc!"

Michael then sniffed Joe and added, "Although... something tells me putting you in protective custody might push KITT's ventilation system to its limits."

"My spectrograph is detecting at least eighty separate byproducts of the decay of organic matter," reported KITT. "If you are going to insist on bringing him inside me, Michael, I recommend a Level-One fumigation."

"We're not going into any kind of protective custody!" retorted Homer. "We gotta find our friend!"

"What friend?"

"His name's Myran," replied Joe. "He dragged us out here to St. Louis to find his communicorder, and he must've found it by now, so now we gotta go home so I can refill my composter."

"Communi-what?" asked Michael.

"Never mind!" snapped Homer, deflecting the sensitive question as he pulled out his cell phone.

He tried phoning Myran, using the unlisted number Myran programmed into his spare communicorder for such an occasion. He instead contacted a telephone operator in Hamburg, two pizza takeout places at opposite ends of the country, and some weirdo who kept going on about a guy named Shadow knowing what was inside men's hearts or something. "That was a bust, and the last we heard of Myran was yesterday when he was going to the airport. He better not have gone home without us!"

"Why wouldn't he?" muttered Joe. "Every day at the end of school, the bus would leave without me."

"That's because every time you _did_ get on the bus with your body odor, at least half the other kids called in sick the next day!"

He tried calling every other team scattered around the globe, to no avail. "Why isn't anybody else answering their phones!? How're we supposed to get back home now!?"

Michael offered the answer. "Gentlemen, KITT's taxi service is open for business."

"All the way to Jersey?" was Homer's disbelieving reply.

"I am _not_ a taxi service, Michael," was KITT's indignant reply.

Michael leaned in close to KITT and murmured, "C'mon, KITT, we're supposed to find out all we can about these two and what they're doing here. A long road trip is just the thing for getting people to open up about themselves. Besides, you're always up for a road trip."

"To New Jersey?"

Michael paused. "Point taken. Just suck it up and we'll be back at F.L.A.G. before you know it."

"It would be impossible for me to return to F.L.A.G. without knowing it, unless you deactivate all of my external sensors."

Smith scowled. "Machine minds," he cursed. "Thank heavens I never have to deal with them on a regular basis."

And so, the road trip hinted at in the title of this chapter was from St. Louis, Missouri all the way to Poker Bluffs, New Jersey. As Michael promised, Homer and Joe would be at their destination by afternoon of the next day, thanks to the advantage that KITT could drive itself all day and all night with only brief stops for gas.

"Self-driving cars," noted Joe. "How long do you think before they're finally on the market?"

"The way too many human drivers drive, it can't be too soon for me!" retorted Homer.

By now, Smith was actually enjoying the trip, riding shotgun next to Michael. "A luxurious ride, indeed, Mr. Knight, worthy of crowned princes and other heads of state. Your suspension is as well-balanced as any of the finest automobiles in the world!"

"You know a thing or two about cars, Smith?" asked Michael.

"My dear sir, I'll have you know during my residency in Europe, I was an avid follower of the Grand Prix! I would wile away many a free hour watching the glamour and spectacle of fine-tuned machines racing through plains and mountains, and dare I say, imagining myself at the wheel of such a machine!"

"Somehow, I cannot picture you driving a car at the necessary speed to qualify for any sort of race," KITT countered. "Based on my observations of your reactions to stress, you would lose your nerve driving a bumper car at an amusement park."

"Spare me your slanderous barbs, you pretentious Pontiac! The courage of Dr. Zachary Smith is beyond repute!"

"Is that why you were calling for your mommy during the shootout?" asked Homer.

Smith stared daggers at Homer and retorted, "Just you wait!"

"And while I'm waiting, I'm going to try Myran again."

Homer dialed Myran's unlisted number again. This time, someone picked up, but instead of Myran's - or anybody's - voice, it was the sound of extremely unusual static that seemed to oscillate erratically in pitch and volume. Homer put his cell on speaker mode so everyone could listen, making everyone else just as puzzled.

"I've never heard a sound like that before," said Joe. "Maybe your phone's busted?"

As if in response, a mysterious, unemotional voice came out of the phone saying, "There is nothing wrong with your cellular phone. Do not attempt to adjust the sound. We are controlling transmission. We will control the volume - we will control the frequency - we will control all that you hear..."

Homer immediately hung up.

"This entire escapade is treading dangerously close to the outer limits of credibility," grumbled Smith.

"This entire _novel_ is close to the outer limits of credibility," Homer replied. "Joe, I don't think we have any choice now. If we want to find out what happened to the others, we'll have go find them."

"You mean use the transmat?" asked Joe.

Homer gritted his teeth. "Yes, but I didn't mean mentioning it in front of _them_!"

Them, a.k.a. Michael Knight, Doctor Smith, and KITT, looked at Homer and Joe. "Transmat?" asked Michael.

"Something we use to beam from one place to another," Joe answered. He then looked pointedly at Homer and added, "Something neither of us have the slightest idea how to use."

Homer was about to tear into Joe for not keeping his mouth shut emagain/em, when he was forced to admit Joe had a point. "How are any of you at operating alien tech?"

Iva parked on the street near Rupert's house, and spent the next several seconds staring in disbelief at the 1966-model Batmobile also parked near Rupert's house.

"Do I even want to know who he's got on his webcast this time?" she muttered to herself.

She knocked on Rupert's front door three times. When no one answered, she tried the doorknob and found it was unlocked. She knew he never left the house unlocked when he was out, hence the reason for grumbling to herself, "See if I answer _my_ door the next time you come over."

"Hello!?" she called out as soon as she was inside. "Rupert!? . . . Is _anybody_ here!?"

"No!" Joe shouted back, followed immediately by a loud rap and a cry of pain.

Iva rolled her eyes toward the open basement door from where the sounds came from. She descended the stairs, demanding, "Okay, who owns the batty car outside?"

She stopped halfway down and gaped as soon as she saw Homer, Joe, Smith, and Michael gathered around Myran's transmat, and _another_ car parked right on the transmat stage!

"How the hell did you get _that_ car down here!?"

"I took a left turn at the kitchen," answered KITT.

Iva gaped specifically at KITT for several seconds before finally muttering, "I _don't_ want to know who he's got on his webcast this time," and returned upstairs.

Joe turned to Michael and Smith. "Rupert's sister. Don't worry, she doesn't give a fig about what goes on here."

"The feeling is entirely mutual," declared Smith. "How much longer before you can activate this contraption?"

"I am having difficulty interfacing with this device's operating system," said KITT. "It is extremely sophisticated. However, I have accessed what appears to be the equivalent of a temporary flash memory, and I believe I can use it to activate its most recent destination setting."

"Sort of like redial on a phone," offered Michael.

"The analogy is appropriate."

"That was us and Myran!" retorted Homer. "We just spent umpteen hours driving from St. Louis, I don't wanna go back!"

"The destination setting is not St. Louis. According to the coordinates, it is Athens, Greece."

Homer and Joe looked at each other. "Where Ima and Gary went?" asked Homer. "Who else went there after we left?"

"Let's find out," said Michael. "All aboard!"

They all climbed back into KITT. Smith was back in nervous mode, stuttering, "This - eh, 'transmat' - it will actually make us disappear from here, and reappear somewhere else?"

"That's the idea," said Joe.

"There aren't any loud explosions involved, are there?"

"Not that we noticed," answered Homer, "unless you count the blown fuse during that test run. And even then, the cargo made it to where it was going and back again just fine."

"What was the cargo?" asked Michael.

"A carton of scrambled eggs," replied Joe.

"'Scrambled' eggs? Why did you scramble them before beaming?"

"We didn't."

"_What!?_" shrieked Smith.

"Activating the transmat now," announced KITT.

"WAIT!" wailed Smith, but it was too late. The controls came to life, and KITT and his/its passengers were bathed in scanning hyper-energy and slowly vanished.

Smith didn't stop screaming until at least two seconds after they finished materializing in the middle of a deserted, dilapidated street. After he stopped, he quickly patted himself all over to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. "Good heavens!" he gasped. "I feel as though a billion ants just crawled all over me!"

"I _have_ had ants crawl all over me," noted KITT.

Michael glared at KITT's dashboard. "Are you _ever_ gonna forget about me parking you on that anthill?"

"I cannot forget anything, Michael, you know that. However, I strongly recommend that the owner of that transmat run a full diagnostic on it. According to my GPS, we are not in Greece. We are in a small country called Pottsylvania."

Oh great, _now_ what do we do!?" griped Homer.

"KITT, access global maps, find us the shortest route to Athens from here," ordered Michael.

A screen on the dashboard began displaying and panning a rapid succession of Eastern European road maps. "There is no direct road access between Pottsylvania and Greece, Michael," reported KITT. "In fact, I cannot find _any_ open roads leading out of Pottsylvania. The entire country seems to have cut itself off from the rest of the world."

"What about off-road?"

"There is a long chain of mountains lining the border nearest Greece. It would take several extra days to go around them. And if you are about to suggest driving over them, my tires' traction may be superior to that of most cars, but I am not a mountain goat."

"Oh, the pain!" wailed Smith. "Marooned in a strange, unfriendly country! We're doomed!"

Ignoring Smith, Michael asked, "What about emflying/em to Greece? We can contact F.L.A.G. and arrange for an air pickup."

A few more seconds worth of rapid-pan maps scrolled across the screen. "I have located the closest airstrip, seven-point-four miles from here, but I cannot determine if it has a runway long enough for a cargo plane suitable for transporting me."

"Let's find out." Michael put KITT in gear and they took off.

"_That's_ an airstrip?"

The airstrip that Homer couldn't bring himself to believe was an airstrip was a short gravel trail that barely qualified as a cowpath let alone something to land airplanes on. At one end was a rundown mobile home, a forty-foot-high tangle of old TV antennas, and a giant pile of burning tires.

"The planes around here better have emreally/em good brakes," added Homer.

"I utterly refuse to spend one moment in that infernal place!" declared Smith. "I can already smell the horrible stench of those burning tires!"

"No, that's my lunch," said Joe, holding up a small lunch bag. "I packed it for the transmat."

"You are never, _ever_ coming to another company potluck!" Homer told him.

Smith realized Michael was still driving toward the end of the airport runway opposite from the post-apocalyptic scene. "What are you doing!? I told you, I will not set one foot at this miserable excuse for an airport!"

"Right now, this miserable excuse for an airport is the only airport we've got," Michael replied. "Maybe there's somebody here who knows a better one nearby."

"Caution, Michael!" declared KITT. "I am detecting multiple land mines buried on both sides of the entire length of the runway."

"Land mines!?" exclaimed Homer.

"Got it, KITT. Stick to the runway." Michael steered for the end of the runway to get on the safe course.

And about a hundred feet shy of the end, KITT suddenly ground to a halt and became bogged down in semi-liquefied dirt.

"KITT!?" Michael demanded.

"My apologies, Michael. I'm afraid my scanners were not designed to detect quicksand at a distance."

"_Quicksand!?_" exclaimed Homer even louder.

"KITT, get us outta here!" ordered Michael.

KITT spun his wheels to no avail. "No good, Michael. I cannot get any traction, and my efforts are only making us sink faster!"

Smith wailed loudest of all. "How can this be!? Drowned in quicksand! Sucked down into the bowels of the Earth! What could be a worse fate!?"

"How about sinking in quicksand, _and_ getting run over by an airplane?" asked Joe.

They saw an airplane coming down out of the sky toward the other end of the runway - an airplane much too large and coming in much too fast for the length of it. Its course was going to take them along the runway directly toward KITT, and at its speed, it was certain the plane was going to overshoot the end of it and land right on top of KITT and its passengers!

"Make that _two_ airplanes!" exclaimed Michael.

The second airplane was right behind the first one.

"Correction, Michael," said KITT. "_Three_ airplanes."

The third airplane was on the same direct line the other two were making, and quickly catching up to the second. Except the second suddenly put on an extra burst of speed as if it wanted to catch up with the first and didn't care if it rear-ended it in the process. The third plane then put the pedal to the metal straight for the tail of the second.

"We're going to get run over by an airplane demolition derby!" shouted Homer.

"WE'RE DOOMED!" screamed Smith.

"_Now_ you're short and to the point!" Joe retorted to him.

They were already more than halfway submerged in the quicksand. "KITT! Can you still turbo boost?" demanded Michael.

"Normal air intake is diminished, Michael. I will have to supplement from the reserve tanks, and I must aim carefully to avoid impact on the land mines."

"Do it!"

"Trajectory calculated. Engage now!"

Michael pressed a button on the dashboard marked "Turbo Boost."

Everyone aboard KITT was suddenly shoved back into their seats with nearly 3 g's as the super car shot out of the quicksand like a cannonball, Smith screaming his head off all the way. KITT hit the ground just past the edge of the minefield an instant before the first plane screeched to a stop at the very end of the runway.

"Down!" barked Michael. He and his passengers ducked down below window level about two instants before the second plane slammed into the tail of the first, which was another two instants before the third plane hit the second. Twin fireballs rivaling atomic explosions erupted from the collision site, spreading to eventually cover KITT, the entire stretch of the runway, the ramshackle "terminal", and the writer of this chapte-

"Was that supposed to be funny?"

Don't overthink it.

**Sorry it's been so long since my last post. At least I got this one finished before Christmas.**

**Homer, Joe, and Garrowitz and his goons are copyright to me, supreme leader of R. C. Gumby Productions. Dr. Smith is copyright to Irwin Allen Productions and Fox Television Studios, with thanks to Jonathan Harris for bringing him to life. Frank Drebin, back for one more cameo, is copyright to Paramount Pictures, with thanks to Leslie Neilsen for this character's characterization. And our newcomers, Michael Knight and KITT, copyright to Glen A. Larson Productions and NBC Universal Television Distribution, with characters courtesy of David Hasselhoff and the voice of William Daniels.**

"Finally, I get a voice credit. They never gave me one on _our_ show."

"Let it go, KITT. At least you got a free wash and wax after every episode."


End file.
